Continuing Education
by Cha Oseye Tempest Thrain
Summary: Summer's over, but school has just begun. Sequel to 'Summer Camp'. Rated 'R' for language.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, I make no money from this.

Author's note: Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed 'Summer Camp' on such a loyal basis. It had originally been intended as a stand-alone, story (i.e. no sequel), but the enthusiasm inspired more ideas. I hope you enjoy this one as much, and please, continue to let me know what you think.

Author's note II: Thank you also to gaianarchy and silvershadowfire, my excellent beta readers. Without them, I would never have gotten this far... you'd be amazed how much influence they've had.

Prologue

_Dear Henry,_

My science teacher tells me that the technical specifications I presented regarding the Warp Two engine (for my science research project) seem highly unlikely. However, I was merely extrapolating from the quotes you gave me. I understand if you needed to provide inaccurate information for security purposes, but I was wondering if there was something I was missing.

_Yours truly,_

Charles Tucker III

_Dear Trip,_

_While your extrapolations are excellent, there seems to be some discrepancy in your numbers. Perhaps you should recheck your addition._

_Sincerely,_

Henry Archer

_Dear Henry,_

_Damn… I was afraid it was something like that. Oh… by the way, I've been looking into some of the original CERN research on anti-matter… there's something there that might help explain some of the problems you've been having… I'll let you know as soon as I put my finger on it._

_Your friend,_

_Trip._

_Dear Trip,_

_Forward away. If a thirteen-year-old can figure out this mess, then I'm not going to argue. At this point I'd take advice from Santa Claus._

_Regards,_

_Henry_

_Dear Henry,_

_I think Santa is more adept at _bio_engineering. You know – flight capable reindeer and all._

_Trip._

_Dear Trip,_

_To use your terminology… school sucks. I still have Jonesy here (it's part of his sentence), though he has left me alone since I took a piece of pipe to his knee. Somehow he failed to mention it was me when they asked how it happened… I think he was still in shock. Unfortunately, my father has decided to send me to a military academy (yes, I have changed institutions, and I _still_ have Jonesy), to prepare me for entrance into the Navy. He was not enamoured with my announcement that I would prefer to go into Starfleet – I believe the term he used was 'useless dilettantes.' He has also forbidden me to correspond with you: he found a copy of your last letter and informed me that you were an 'undesirable influence', and were putting 'untenable' ideas in my head. Thus, I have snuck out of school, and am sending this from a café at midnight. Please use the following address for return correspondence, and address it to Mr. Bartlett_.

_Dear Mr. Bartlett_

_'Big X,' huh? Sounds like you need to plan a 'Great Escape' of your own. Have you considered running away from home? I would… but I've been confined to the house for the next five weeks._

_Trip 'The Cooler King' Tucker_

_Dear Jon,_

_I am sorry to put this in a letter… but I fear our relationship is simply not working out. Therefore, I must say goodbye. I wish you the best in all your future endeavours… and no hard feelings between us._

_Kelly_

_Hey, hotshot,_

_You know for a thirteen-year-old you're pretty good at being an asshole. I might have actually _believed_ that letter… had you not spelled Kellie's name wrong. I had to get one of the geeks here to trace it – he says he hasn't seen a scramble that good in a long time. Eleven relays? You really like to have fun with people, don't you? 'Dear John' letter… you little shit. So this is what I get for keeping in touch: smart-assed remarks and practical jokes. Actually, it's been a bad week, so I needed a good laugh. I don't think I'll be volunteering at camp this summer. You've pretty much spoiled it for me – it just wouldn't be the same without you (easier, maybe… but not as interesting). Besides, I'm not sure they'll take me back. They might be afraid that you'll be coming with me._

_Still not becoming a social worker,_

_Jon._

_P.S. Dad says 'maybe… but he must know _something_ about Warp drive if he gets them round the world in one night.' What the hell is that all about?_

_Dear Jon,_

_I'm sorry. You don't have the necessary clearance for that._

_Trip_.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

The figure watched as three kids played together in the front yard – the eldest watching over the other two and letting them hang off of him and tackle him to the ground. The scene resembled something out of an old television program: the happy American family at play. He listened to the screams of laughter as the trio frolicked under the late autumn sun, and watched intently. _This_ was the one. Finally, he'd found it.

A woman came to the door and called them inside for dinner, not noticing the dark form across the street, not realising that her family was being observed. The perfect American family – blond haired, blue-eyed, athletic and intelligent. Settling down for their chatty American family dinner where they'd discuss the days events – talk about the eldest boy's big game… talk about the little girl's latest art project. He felt a deep longing and envy…

"Soon…" he whispered, "soon."

He waited past the dinner hour, until the sun disappeared below the trees – waited until the lights of the second story began to turn on and then off, as each member of the household turned their thoughts to sleep. He identified each room by the silhouettes in the windows – even as he circuited the house, they didn't see him.

And there… perfect. The eldest boy's bedroom lay within easy reach… all he would need to do was scale the sturdy tree, and he would be in. He wondered if the parents knew how vulnerable that window was – how simple it would be to climb up to, and how quietly it could be done. He waited until the last light was extinguished, then set his plan into motion.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

_I just gotta be able to put my finger on it_. It was right there, hanging in front of his nose, tantalizing him. Trip shifted in his bed, trying to find a comfortable position. The anti-matter problem wasn't the only thing bothering him – he'd spent the evening with the funny feeling that someone was watching him. _I couldn't _see_ anybody… but that doesn't mean that they weren't there._ After all… there'd been a creepy guy hanging around outside of Elizabeth's school about a month ago… and they'd never caught him. _If he comes after Lizzie… I'll kill him_.

As if in response to his thoughts, something rustled in the tree outside, like someone working their way along the branch outside his window. _Son of a bitch_. Trip reached down beside his bed and picked up his Louisville Slugger, then slid out of bed to stand beside the slightly open window. "I'm warning you, buddy… I'm armed. Don't even _think_ of coming in here."

"Given the fact that I know you couldn't hit anything with that… somehow I'm less than scared." The voice that answered him was the last one he expected. Still a high-pitched kid's voice, with an all-too-familiar British accent and a fairly new dryly amused tone. Trip's bat dropped to the floor, and his jaw nearly connected with his knees. It couldn't be… it just couldn't be…

"Malcolm?"


	2. Scheming and Deceiving

Disclaimer: I do not own the Star Trek: Enterprise characters. I make no money off of this, these stories are written purely for enjoyment.

Author's note: Thank you so much for the reviews to my rather short prologue, and thank you as always to gaianarchy and silvershadowfire who take the time and the patience to clear up my lousy punctuation, half-finished thoughts and 3 am ramblings. I am forever in your debt.

Chapter 1: Scheming and Deceiving

"Malcolm? What are you doing in my tree?" This couldn't actually be happening… he wouldn't… he didn't…

"Itching. I think there are some sort of insects here… would you mind opening the screen so I can get in?" Trip could make out a small figure now, lying on the branch.

"Sorry." He fumbled with the latch, finally managing to release it. He reached out and helped his friend inside. "What are you doing here?" He reached over and switched on the lamp beside his bed to give them a little light.

Malcolm dropped down from the windowsill and began brushing off the front of his shirt – dark grey to blend into the evening shadows. "Well, it was your suggestion to run away from home. Surely you're not going to fault me for taking your advice."

Trip shook his head, exasperatedly, despite his joy at seeing his friend again. "Malcolm… following my advice always gets us into trouble. Didn't you at least learn _that_ over the summer?"

"Well, according to the law of averages, you have to be right at some point… I might as well keep trying until it happens." Malcolm's lips curved into a mischievous smile, a complete transformation from his normal, serious self.

Trip grabbed his pillow and held it over his mouth to muffle his laughter. "Stop saying stuff like that, or you'll have my parents in here."

The other boy paled suddenly. "No. Trip, we can't have that; they'll send me home and I really _have_ run away."

"You're serious," Trip sobered. "Okay… well, we better come up with a plan, then. I mean, obviously you have to stay here… so we'll need something that my parents'll buy." He stared off at nothing and tapped his finger under his nose, thinking. "They'll buy a lie from me… or at least the fact that I was lying… but they'd check it out…" He turned suddenly to look at Malcolm again. "I don't suppose your father would give you permission to come here…"

"You must be joking." Malcolm shook his head. "There is _no_ way my father would give me permission to spend time with someone like you. He feels you've been enough of an 'unsuitable influence' on me as it is."

Trip's finger moved down to his lips. "But what if he did? Malcolm… my parents have no idea who your father is… they've never met him. All we need is a voice and a model… a simulacrum, so to speak. We should probably work from your face… age it appropriately – I can get a hold of the software easily enough – and then we can tweak your voice… give it some more bass and stuff… after that, it's just a matter of making sure it looks like they've actually contacted him. Of course, _we'll_ be supplying all the answers… from right in here… and they won't be able to tell, I can easily make it look like it's originating in England… the school database won't be a problem… I can register you and back-date the forms in no time."

"School?"

Trip exhaled, sending his bangs flying upwards. _Hello…reality check_. "School, Malcolm. You _have_ to go to school… they'll never buy it otherwise. But here, it's totally different from where you go… especially the military stuff… for one thing, we don't live there… and for another, I know a lot of cool places if we cut study-hall or a dumb class like P.E. or something."

Malcolm furrowed his brow. "I thought you would like Physical Education."

"Not when it's basketball or square-dancing. I mean _puh-leeze_. I do _not_ do basketball… and there is no _way_ I'm spending my time listening to some guy tell me to 'twirl my partner.' _Especially_ since we've got more guys than girls this year – don't ask me how that happened – and I'm not ending up with some jerk who thinks it's more fun to tear my arm off. A rib-rattling cough can only get you out of so much." Trip flopped down on his bed, still cradling the pillow.

"What about telling them you've got a migraine?" Malcolm settled himself on the floor.

Trip bolted upright. "Are you crazy? _Nobody_ knows I get those… well, aside from you, and Jon, and that nurse guy back at the camp… but nobody else. Oh, and you are _not_ joining the Chess club, whatever you do. I managed to get myself out of that hell… Dad decided that it wasn't necessary for my 'intellectual development' anymore. Actually, I think they were trying to make me feel better after I got the crap beat out of me… they freaked out and needed to feel like they were taking care of me."

"Don't remind me." Malcolm shuddered, clearly remembering what had happened.

"Hey… I still could've taken him. He was ready to go down." Trip hugged the pillow even tighter in a defensive gesture.

"Trip… you were bleeding from more places than I could count. He'd broken several of your bones… and you'd only bruised him."

Trip closed his eyes. _Yeah, so?_ "But I was still standing, wasn't I? Trust me… one good hit and he would've dropped like a rock."

"I'm sure he would have." Malcolm didn't sound convinced. "Are you taller?"

"You're changing the subject. Yes, I am, and it's a pain in the ass if you ask me. Kids are _really_ makin' fun of the fact that I'm called 'Trip,' now. And Mom's pissed off because she's gotta take me shopping every two weeks or so, 'cause I don't fit the old stuff." Trip glared at a reflection of himself in the base of the lamp. "And thank you for not mentioning the spots." Nature was a mother-something, there was no doubt in Trip's mind about that.

"I wish I was growing. Maybe if I was bigger, people would take me seriously." Malcolm stared down at the floor and began playing with the carpet.

"You will… I mean you're two years younger than me as it is. And _I_ take you seriously."

Malcolm nodded, "I know, but…"

"And Jon took you seriously. Do you still write to him?"

Malcolm shook his head. "My father wouldn't approve, and the school would be suspicious about regular correspondence with a nineteen-year-old."

Trip nodded, understandingly. "Yeah, I can see that. See, I'm lucky because my parents have actually met him. They're just amazed that he'll actually talk to me. And they think he's a stabilizing influence… because he set up for his dad to mentor me for an engineering career." Trip shook his head. "I still can't believe that Jon's dad is _Henry_ Archer. I mean, Jon was such a geek."

"He wasn't…"

"Come on. All that cheery 'we're going to have a good time.' crap? Naw… I had to straighten him out… or rather, make him a little more twisted."

"Well, I'd say you succeeded." Malcolm made a little noise that was half-grunt, half-snort.

Trip grinned. "Yeah, I did, didn't I? It was good for him, though… the guy needed to stop trying to be so perfect."

Malcolm laughed, quietly. "Well, no one could ever accuse you of being perfect."

"A perfect disaster, maybe." Trip couldn't let that opportunity slip past. "But seriously… we better get to planning now… and I better get us some coffee, because this'll probably take us the better part of the night, and we've got to get you out of here before my parents – or worse yet, James or Lizzie – wake up. Because I think it would work better if you came in by the front door."

"You mean, as opposed to the back window? And I thought that would be _less_ suspicious. And I don't drink coffee."

Trip threw the pillow at him. "Stop trying to usurp me as the king of sarcasm. And you do now, because you're going to need to stay awake." He got up and headed towards the door, then paused. "Don't worry… I'll go heavy on the cream and sugar, since you're a newbie. It'll taste like candy."

Malcolm gave him an odd look, but said nothing.

"Hey. Trust me, I'll have you hooked on this stuff in no time." Trip's grin grew manic. "It's wonderful stuff, little boy. Just try some… free of charge."

"My father warned me about people like you… in fact he warned me about you in particular." Malcolm smiled again.

"What a glowing recommendation. I should send him a thank-you letter. By the way, good move with the pipe thing… I bet the old man would have kittens if he found out."

"Which is why I'm not telling him," Malcolm agreed.

Trip laughed again, and headed out the door.

……………………………………………………………………………………………....

Malcolm looked around the room, marvelling at how much stuff Trip had in here. Pictures and posters decorated every wall – not to mention the ceiling – his desk had practically disappeared under a state of the art computer and a mess of padds and papers. Pieces of something Malcolm couldn't identify had been neatly stacked on the floor beside it, each one bearing its own label – a couple of spray cans and oil bottles sat next to them. Sports equipment lay heaped in one corner and the dresser was cluttered with more pieces of machinery and various chemicals… a neat row of shop towels played soldier in the corner.

_It's like two different people live in here_. It suited Trip though, who could never be slotted into a single category.

_And to think I wanted to stay as far away from you as possible_. Funny how first impressions could be so far off: he'd thought Trip was worse than trouble, but how many people would take you in when you showed up on their windowsill? Not only take you in, but go through so much effort to help you? _But that's Trip… nothing's too difficult for a friend._

As if in answer to his thoughts, Trip returned, carrying not only the coffee, but an entire tray containing sandwiches and cookies. "I thought we could use a little something to snack on. I've got Ham and Swiss on Sixteen grain bread, Roast Beef and Roasted Garlic Havarti on Cibatta, and Pastrami on Rye – Mom had some friends over for poker last night, and these got left over. The cookies are pumpkin… they're really good."

"Thank you." Suddenly Malcolm realised how hungry he was – he hadn't eaten since breakfast.

"Hey, no problem. It was all just sitting there, anyway… someone might as well eat it. But we better get started." Trip crossed over to his closet and stood on a trunk to reach a top shelf. He removed a box and pulled out something that Malcolm didn't recognise.

"Now _this_ is cool… it's a three dimensional scanner. It's mostly used for building prototype models; I saved my allowance for over a year and everything I got for my birthday and Christmas just to get this puppy. It's perfect for what we're doing. I'll still need photographs, of course, but this will let us perfect the angles and proportions. It'll really shortcut building our simulacrum, and we need all the time we can get. Mom and Dad are usually up around seven – and this thing has got to look realistic, and move realistically too. I mean, we're trying to pull off a major fraud here… we don't want to get caught because our guy looks like a puppet."

"I never thought of it that way." Now that he _did_ think about it… it _was_ fraud. "Maybe we shouldn't do this. You could get into serious trouble, and I don't want you to do…"

"Malcolm." Trip gave him a look of complete seriousness. "We don't have another choice. If things were bad enough for you to run away, they're bad enough to justify something like this. And don't worry about me. I'm doing this of my own free will, and it was _my_ idea to start with."

"Okay." _Right_. Of course Trip wouldn't back down now that he had an idea and he wanted to try it out. As for risk – Trip never seemed to consider any danger to himself to be worth worrying about. He'd go to great lengths to protect anybody else, but his own safety never seemed to be a concern.

Trip busied himself with taking scans and pictures, before downloading everything onto the computer and beginning to build his simulacrum. Malcolm took the opportunity to tear into the sandwiches; the coffee wasn't bad either. Trip had filled it with cream and sugar like he'd promised, and it was more sweet than bitter.

"Do you really think this will work?" Trip tended to overlook possibility of his great plans not being so great after all, and the fact that other people might see through them. _But it's _me_ who has the most at stake here if he underestimates his parents_.

"It's the best bet… it's not foolproof, but the trick will be to not overuse it. Is your father patient?" Trip didn't look up from his work.

"It depends. When it comes to other people – not really. He has a lot of patience for his bugs, though."

"Bugs?" Now Trip did turn around, staring at Malcolm wide-eyed. "Like listening devices?"

"No… insects." Malcolm furrowed his brow. _Listening devices?_

"Gross!" Trip shuddered. "How could anybody want to have bugs like that in their house? Doesn't it give you the creeps? I mean all those legs… and those eyes staring at you… even if they're dead they're disgusting. And spiders are the worst… all creepy-crawly and running everywhere, like they're out to get you…"

"That's ridiculous… spiders aren't out to get you. And they're not insects, either. They're arachnids. Insects only have six legs, but arachnids have eight."

"Well, it's ridiculous to be afraid of drowning all the time," Trip shot back.

"It's called a phobia… it's not like I _want_ to be afraid of drowning."

"Oh… so I just _decided_ not to like bugs." Malcolm could hear the sulk in Trip's voice.

_Why do I always forget how sensitive you can be?_ Malcolm suddenly regretted his earlier statement. Who _was_ he to say that Trip's fear of insects was any less valid than his own aquaphobia? It was just that Trip had a way of making you forget that he could be afraid of anything. He'd take on huge risks without even hesitating – and he never tended to let those fears get in the way of what he wanted to do. _Anyone who confesses their fear of heights while sitting on a rooftop_... well, anyone else and Malcolm would say they were insane. _But that's just Trip_. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it as an insult. It just surprised me – that's all. I've never thought of insects as being harmful."

Trip huffed, but didn't say anything. Malcolm could see the tension leaving the other boy however; he looked like a cat who suddenly realised that he wasn't facing a threat. "Yeah, well they're just as harmful as water. 'Specially when you're allergic to spiderbites."

"You are?" Malcolm perked up. His allergies proved a constant worry – it was nice to meet someone who could sympathise.

"When I was little I was playing in the park and this spider bit me. If my mom hadn't got me to the hospital quick. They had to give me a shot of adrenaline, it was so bad. 'Course I don't really remember it, 'cause I was only three at the time... and they say you can't consciously remember much before you're three... which is weird, because I learned to read before I was three, and I still remember how to do that... and I learned to talk, and I remember my mom and dad..." Trip began to ramble like he did when his thoughts got too far ahead of him.

"Yes, but you've kept up with all those things." Malcolm wasn't too certain that practice had anything to do with it – sometimes Trip knew very strange things.

"Or... maybe they're just subconscious things... we don't really think about them, we just do them. Maybe before you're three almost everything programs straight into the subconscious... kind of like blowing data onto a PROM."

Malcolm shook his head. "A what?"

"Programmable Read-Only-Memory. They're these chipsets... basically you can put data on them once and it's there forever. Computers can't really operate without them. They usually contain the basic operating instructions. Maybe it's the same with our brains – we get all this data programmed into them when we're little, and that affects how we operate when we grow up."

"But that can be changed," Malcolm argued. He'd missed this, really – discussions that tested the limits of his comprehension. He wondered if Trip had missed it too. The older boy often acted like he had less intelligence than he truly did. But somewhere beneath the laid-back beach-boy attitude lurked a genius. Not an academic genius, but genius in its truest form: the ability to become inspired, to see things in a way that no one else could. _Which is half the problem_. Malcolm knew well the difficulties of intelligence – he had enough of it himself – but Trip... half the time he couldn't even explain the things he understood. _So no one believes he understands it._

"Totally? Without reprogramming the subconscious?" Trip turned around. "Not really, I don't think. Not for automatic stuff. I think it's like a safety mechanism."

"If it's automatic, wouldn't that be a reflex? I seem to recall my Science teacher informing me that the brain isn't involved in reflex actions – only the spinal cord. That's why they can occur so quickly."

"So the spinal cord's part of the PROM system." Trip shrugged. "That would explain why some things are impossible to overcome." Trip frowned and began rubbing his fingertips together. "That could help, though. I mean, I've been trying to think of ways to avoid too many repetitive movements – but if I avoid them altogether that could be a problem too. An' you said your dad's an admiral? He's prob'ly real stiff then." Malcolm strained to understand Trip's thickening accent as the other boy slid deeper into thought. "Y'know, sit up straight an' stuff like that? Which'll help us too, 'cause we won' have t'deal with too much motion. So I c'n focus on the face..." Suddenly Trip bolted straight up himself. "Omigod."

"What?" Malcolm felt a sudden surge of panic.

"Won't your school call the cops? 'Cause you're missing? And won't this be the first place the cops'll look?"

"I didn't think of that." Malcolm didn't even try to determine how Trip managed to go from programming to police. "Maybe we shouldn't do this."

"Or maybe we should figure out a way to throw the cops off track. First, we should probably see if it's been reported yet. If it hasn't, maybe we can intercept it. No file, no case. Gotta love the modern world... it's all about documentation."

"You want to alter police records?" Malcolm was horrified. He'd never _dreamed_ Trip would go that far.

"Only if I gotta. If I can grab the file before it gets there... I'll just fake up documentation that it was received, and the cops won't even be involved. An' since it's the _school_ an' not your parents... _they_ prob'ly won't keep hassling the cops – they'll just pass the problem off to another institution. An' we didn't address the problem of your parents, either. I mean _mine_'ll at least know where you are. Hopefully we c'n stop the school from informing them, too, then they'll jus' think you're at school." Trip's drawl kicked in again. "How much lead time've we got?" Suddenly he paled. "You _did_ cook up an excuse for some lead time, din't ya? I mean... I mean... you didn't jus' take off in the middle of the night without _some_... some sorta explanation..." As Trip's agitation grew, he began to stammer.

"I informed them that I was going to visit my Aunt for a few weeks. Then I went and saw her and informed _her_ that I was just able to visit for a couple of days... I hope Aunt Sherry doesn't contact the police herself."

"I hope the school doesn't contact your Aunt Sherry." Trip countered, darkly. "At least we're lucky that there doesn't seem to be a lot of communication in your family. If _I_ pulled a stunt like that, folks in ten states would know within an hour – and that _includes_ Hawaii and Alaska. Not only that, but my uncle works for the FBI... and he'd be after me so fast you wouldn't be able to say 'bye.' I mean, my cousin Joe ran away once, an' they caught him in Costa Rica in less than a day. 'Course he'd already married the girl by then... I don't think _I'll_ ever get married... at least not at fifteen. An' definitely not to some nineteen-year-old college chick." Trip pursed his lips. "It _did_ take him longer to find Joey, though..."

"Huh?" Malcolm blinked, confused. _Wasn't that who you were just talking about?_

"Joey? My uncle Mike's daughter? Well, it's really Jolene, but everyone just calls her Joey. An' she wasn't even trying to hide, she just changed schools and forgot to mention it... dropped out of UNLV and showed up at Boston University a couple of weeks later. She didn't spend too much time there, either... she's at UDub now, I think she's studying Vulcanology." Trip made a face, perhaps anticipating a remark from Malcolm. "An' I don' mean _Vulcans_, I'm talkin' volcanos. She'll prob'ly help us out if we really need it... we'll just need a good enough sob story." Trip sighed and stretched. "Unfortunately, this ain't getting us finished. I mean, now I've got to check to see whether or not you've been reported... set up an intercept for when you _are_ reported – one for the cops and one for your family – come up with a suitable reply for the school from _both_ parties... you've got to come up with a cover story in case your Aunt tries to contact you, _and_ we've gotta get this simulacrum finished." He walked over to where Malcolm was sitting and grabbed a sandwich of his own. "This is going to be one hell of a long night."

_So far, so good_. Malcolm reached out with a trembling hand to press the doorbell. Funny to be walking in the front when so recently you'd snuck in (and out) the back. Yet there'd been no sign of any police, and Trip swore he'd managed to intercept the report in time. Malcolm still felt uneasy about that – felt uneasy about the whole thing. _Trip could get in a lot of trouble for this_. He wondered if Trip realised how much he risked here. Trip's entire dream was to join Starfleet and explore the galaxy... but how likely was that if he ended up being charged with fraud, and impersonating a police officer, and any other number of things that were probably quite illegal about this whole scheme? Maybe he did – and if he got caught he'd probably accept the consequences, too. _Because of _why_ he did it._ Trip would make a good martyr or revolutionary, Malcolm decided, because he'd lay down everything for a cause he believed in. _I just feel a little guilty about being that cause_. Trip had the out and out passion for the role; there were times when he borderlined on the fanatic. _And I am his Peter_. The devoted believer who would build a church on those ideals, but too timid to challenge those who would challenge that church. Fortunately, Trip didn't seem too inclined towards matters of religion or politics, so the world could be spared another transformation. He had the charisma too – not everybody saw it, because not everybody had the chance to see Trip enraptured by idea.

_But those that do_... well, look at Jonathan for instance. If _anyone_ had a right to feel animosity or frustration towards Trip, it would be Jonathan. Last summer when they met, Trip spent almost every waking – and a few sleeping moments trying to drive Jonathan insane. Yet even _he_ was a convert, willing to risk his own future for something that Trip believed.

The door opened, and Trip's mother – Fiona, Malcolm remembered, stared at him in shock. "Malcolm, isn't it?"

"Omigod!" Trip charged to within a foot of the door and stopped dead. "Omigod, I totally forgot... Mom... Malcolm's here on a cultural exchange sort of thing. You see... I filled out the paperwork, 'cause I really, really wanted him to be able to come an' stay with us... I know it was wrong, Mom... but don't punish Malcolm 'cause of me. I mean he's already registered with the school an' everything." Trip handed his mother a bundle of forms – all forged. The words had come flying out so fast, that it was a miracle any had been understood.

"You can contact my father if you wish." Malcolm supplied his line on cue. They were relying on the fact that he'd already established himself as a responsible, mature person – so unlike the hellion they knew for a son. _If you had any idea..._ Still, Trip's parents _were_ used to _his_ being a little less than – well – honest. _'They'll buy the fact that I lied...'_ He supplied the contact number he and Trip had fabricated. _Please don't question it... just take it as being for real_.

"I'm afraid we'll have to." Fiona shot a look at Trip. "Trip has been known to lie to us to get his way before."

Trip shuffled his feet and stared down at the floor, a guilty flush covering his face. Malcolm prayed that Fiona would take it to be guilt at Trip lying about Malcolm's coming... and not guess that Trip was lying about having lied.

"Well, in the meantime you might as well come in... I can't exactly leave you standing there in the street." Fiona stepped aside and Malcolm slipped gratefully through the door. He placed his bag – now stuffed to overflowing with a number of Trip's things – on the floor. After all, if he was supposed to be here for an entire semester, he would need – Trip had argued – more than what he'd brought.

"Come on upstairs." Trip grabbed Malcolm's bag in one hand and Malcolm's arm in the other. "I'll show you my room."

Malcolm waited until the door closed behind them. "Why? Has it changed?" He needed to say something to relieve the tension he felt.

Trip punched him lightly, but grinned. "I'm supposed to be the smartass around here." He pushed aside the chair for his computer, angling it so that it faced the scanner. He instructed Malcolm to sit down, then knelt in front of the keyboard and began pulling up some programs. "Some last minute adjustments to cut down on the delay between your movements and his..." Some time during last night's proceedings, Trip had had the inspiration to use a live modelling program, using the 3-D scanner to capture Malcolm's movements. "And we are ready to go."

They waited restlessly, then the signal flashed. "And action!"

Fiona's face resolved on screen – the simulacrum appeared in a separate window in the corner. "Hello, Admiral Reed?"

"Yes." Malcolm found himself stiffening, out of fear. The simulacrum followed his actions, looking even more like Stuart Reed than previously.

"My name is Fiona Tucker, and I'm calling regarding your son, Malcolm? Did you give him permission to go on a cultural exchange?"

Malcolm narrowed his eyes, and the simulacrum followed suit. "I am assuming that you have received the necessary forms... there should be no problem."

"I'm afraid my son neglected to inform me of their existence, or even that the program was taking place." Fiona's eyes narrowed as well, and Malcolm felt a sudden flash of respect. What he'd seen was a remarkable imitation of Stuart at his frostiest, and Fiona hadn't even flinched. "However... since the paperwork appears to be genuine – at least insofar as its origins – and since you _do_ confirm that Malcolm is supposed to be here, we will allow him to stay. You'll have to forgive my suspicions... but my son has been known to go to extremes at times."

"So I've been informed." Malcolm made his tone as dry as possible. It took every effort not to giggle. "Now if you could excuse me, Madam, I have work to do." Trip hit the sign-off button and the screen went dead.

"Well, I think that went well." Trip heaved a sigh of relief. "Better than I expected. So, I think I've got a roommate." He grinned broadly and stuck out his hand. "You better not snore."

Malcolm swatted at Trip's hand rather than shaking it. "I didn't over the summer... not that you were ever asleep to be disturbed."

Trip's grin didn't waver. "We did it. We _did_ it. An' since you're in most of my classes... this is going to be the best school year ever!"


	3. Chaos

**Disclaimer**: I do not own _Enterprise_ or any of its characters. This is for entertainment purposes only

**Author's note**: Sorry it's been taking me a while between updates, but I'm already late on a paper and really have to focus on it. Hopefully I'll have more time during the Christmas break and the beginning of next semester, and will be able to keep things coming. Thanks as usual, to my betas – especially for getting on my case and reminding me to do the important stuff first (and sorry, but this ain't it).

**Chapter 2: Chaos **

"Hurry up, Malcolm, we're gonna be late!" Malcolm watched in amusement as Trip bolted upright at the sound of the alarm and darted out into the hall towards the bathroom. A few seconds later the boy returned, walking backwards, to stare at Malcolm. "Um… what are you wearing?"

"We are going to school, correct?" Malcolm looked down at himself. Shirt, shoes, pants – it all seemed to be here. He'd showered, so that couldn't be it.

"Not with you dressed like _that_ we aren't. Why did you bring those things anyway? You look like you're headed to the _boardroom_, not the _classroom_." Trip raised one eyebrow while lowering the other.

"I don't understand." He'd grabbed these clothes while he packed, and they were hardly a uniform. Just neat clothes for whatever might require neatness – like school.

"Trip!" Fiona's voice emanated through the floorboards. "Get your butt in gear, Mister. You are _not_ going to be late again." From the way Trip mouthed the words in time with her speech, it was clear that Malcolm's presence had nothing to do with the other boy's tardiness. "And no more 'Monday Morning Flu.' The only reason for you not going is if you're dead."

"Well, it'd be a lot _easier_ to get my butt in _gear_, Mom, if I wasn't having to stop and listen to _you_ all the time," Trip hollered back. He rolled his eyes at Malcolm's look of shock. "Relax. We do this all the time." He leaned in the doorway and dropped his voice. "At least with you here – as company – she won't be on my case as much." Something flickered across Trip's features. "And maybe it'll help with some of the other stuff, too." He shook his head and returned to normal. "But back to the important thing… you show up wearing that, and you are going to get _killed_. Übergeek Chester – I'm sure you remember him – even _he_ doesn't dress like that. I'll see what James has, and then you can change while I shower." His expression changed again: now he looked disgusted. "Yeah, a _lot_ of stuff's been happening to me since I last saw you. I can't pull that 'no shower' shit anymore. Not and have people still talk to me, anyway. I'm telling you Malcolm, growing up is _not_ the great thing they make it out to be. In fact, it stinks."

_Actually, I think that might be you._ Malcolm tried not to smile as Trip headed off down the hallway again. After all, didn't they say that it _was_ a part of puberty? He winced as he heard a crash and some swearing. What was it Trip said about people making fun of his nickname? He had to admit, his friend did look more like a disjointed scarecrow than he had previously, especially with his pale hair sticking out every which way from his head, and his newly awkward movements, as though he had too many joints, and they were all trying to move in different directions at the same time.

Trip returned, rubbing his elbow and carrying some clothes. "Here. These might fit. I think you and James are still about the same size, and I know you brought some running shoes, so at least you're okay on that front. Later, we can see if there isn't some of my old stuff you can wear. If not, I'll tell Mom that you brought all the wrong things and see if we can't get you some basics."

"Actually, your mother thought I looked 'very nicely dressed,'" Malcolm said.

"Yeah, for a funeral. Parents never understand. You show up like that, and the funeral's going to be yours. Now if you'll excuse me, I _do_ have to get into the shower before…"

"Trip!"

"…the queen of darkness starts up again."

Malcolm shook his head as Trip disappeared. He couldn't _imagine_ saying those things about, let alone to, either of his parents. Even at camp, Trip hadn't been this disrespectful, though there had been an undercurrent of _something_ there. Like some sort of power-struggle between the two of them, which appeared to have gotten worse. At least then Trip had seemed to have _some_ respect for his mother. Now…

"Trip! Hurry up! Breakfast is ready, now! _Move_ it, Mister!"

Trip came charging back into the room, dripping wet and wearing only a towel. He cast a quick, apologetic glance at Malcolm, then started rummaging in the dresser. "Well at least you've got the brains to be polite in front of company," he muttered. He paused for a moment and sighed, hanging his head. "It's going to be a bad day."

Malcolm nearly commented before he realized that Trip was talking to himself. And something in the way the boy said it, indicated that 'bad day' was a code for something else entirely. _Uh oh_. Maybe this wasn't the picture-perfect 'Happy American Family' after all.

* * *

_You can't even keep up appearances for company, can you?_ Trip waited until Malcolm had gone before hitting the dresser in frustration. So much for 'genteel Southern manners.' It was all there: the tone of her voice, the repeated yelling. _Today is a fight day_. _Oh well, nothing to do but deal with it. Like I always do_. He found some clothes that still fit and pulled them on, and combed his hair into something that might have resembled order if he could count on it to stay that way for five minutes.

He descended the stairs to find Malcolm at the table, munching on some bran cereal and milk as though he liked it. Mom stood at the counter putting together four lunches instead of three. _June Cleaver with a twist_. The unintended pun might have been funny, were it not his own mother.

He stepped up beside her and spoke softly. "Can I talk to you in the other room for a minute?"

She laid down the knife and took a deep breath, like she was trying not to lose it. "You don't have another minute, Mister. You're going to be late."

He looked her straight in the eye, not wavering. "I'd rather not discuss this in front of Malcolm, would you?"

"Fine." Her eyes flashed as she snapped at him.

_Definitely fight day._ He waited until they were in the living room and closed the connecting door.

"Now, exactly how would my son like to control my life today?" No mistaking that sarcasm, best just to ignore it.

"All I would like is for you to be in your room when we get back. It's bad enough that James and Lizzie have to see you, but there's no reason to drag Malcolm into it too. I'll tell him you've got a migraine or something. I'll lie for you. But Malcolm… Malcolm's got good intentions, Mom. And sometimes he can be pretty naïve. Do you _want_ Child Services in here? 'Cause they'll take one look, and we'll be in foster care before you can blink." _And we'll be split up, and James and Lizzie need me to take care of them_.

She opened her mouth to say something and he shook his head.

"I didn't lose your job for you, Mom, okay? Just…" He sighed. Maybe the job was an excuse, or maybe it was actually a half-truth for her. Maybe if she hadn't lost her job it would be different, but… "I'm just asking that you show some courtesy for our guest, that's all."

"Are you saying your friend will report me to Child Services?" Oh, yes, Mom was definitely in nasty-mode this morning.

"No… but he'd probably do something to help, and end up talking to the wrong person and _they_ would call Child Services. So, just do us all a favour and stay out of sight, okay? That's all I'm asking." He'd given up asking for more than that, knew it wasn't possible. He'd even almost given up on 'maybe, someday.' _But I know for sure that today's not that day_. He had his hand on the door to the kitchen, before he turned back. "Oh, and Mom? His name's Malcolm. Try to remember that, okay?" If she could be sarcastic, then why the hell couldn't he be bitter?

He finished up the lunches himself – Mom was too busy in the living room muttering about 'ungrateful brats' or whatever her term for him was this morning. She had too many for him to keep track of, so he didn't bother trying. Instead, he completed her job, and collected James and Elizabeth, straightening up his sister's clothes – how she always got her shirt on backwards or inside out, he'd never know – and re-braiding her hair.

"Is…" Elizabeth looked up at him questioningly, wiggling a loose tooth with her tongue.

"Shh." He glanced over at Malcolm who watched, but thankfully wasn't asking any questions. Trip busied himself with tying her shoelaces – she hadn't quite got the hang of tight knots yet, either – and helping her on with her backpack. He wasn't sure what was more depressing: that Elizabeth needed to ask about her mother, or that she didn't need an answer.

As he herded everybody out the door and turned to lock it, he felt suddenly small and alone. He chewed on his lip and took his time over the lock, partly from his shaking hands, and partly because he couldn't see. _I want my Mommy._

* * *

Malcolm stared around him, trying to keep up while Trip navigated easily through the overcrowded halls, trying to remember which turn led to where, and how to get from here, back to there.

"You can share a locker with me, 'till you can get one of your own." Trip seemed to have recovered from his earlier spell of whatever it was that had been bothering him. Malcolm knew better than to ask what it was – Trip would probably just lie and tell him it was nothing. "I've got us together for first period, English, Ms. Kelley's not that bad. I mean it's still boring as hell, but she's not as bad as some.

Malcolm caught the padd Trip flung at him. "Right. English. Ms. Kelley."

"We're doing poetry right now, which is really driving me out of my tree. I mean who _cares_ what a metaphor is, or what the writer 'really means.' I mean, how is _that_ supposed to help us in the real world? They ain't going to ask us what 'purple mountain's majesty' is all about, they're gonna ask us can we fix a fluid pump or add up a bunch of numbers or something. Not – y'know – like I want some sort of desk job where I gotta be adding up numbers or something. Now, she likes an alphabetic seating plan, but 'cause you're new, and you know me – I mean R and T would be close anyway, but there's Lisa Richardson and dumbass Brad Singer in the way, not to mention Chess, who'll prob'ly have a fit when he sees you – I can probably swing it so you sit next to me, so I can 'help' you with stuff."

Malcolm could hear the quotes embracing the word help, even without Trip using the classic gesture. "Okay." The noise was a little overwhelming, not to mention the immense crush of people – it seemed like there were too many people for the space.

"Yeah, it's a little overcrowded," Trip seemed to read his thoughts. "They're s'posed to be building a new one soon, but they haven't got around to it, yet. Prob'ly because there's so much protected areas around – y'know wetlands and so – that it's difficult to do a lot of new construction."

"Okay."

Trip grinned and punched him lightly on the shoulder, before closing the locker door. "Relax, Mal. You'll be fine. I mean, you're practically a freakin' genius anyway… with half of this stuff _you'll_ prob'ly be helping _me_." And odd shudder ran through him. "Imagine, my first A in English. The world might come to an end."

"It would help if we were to start you _speaking_ English first." Malcolm jumped back as Trip threw a mock punch at him. Then he grinned too. Before last summer, he never would have _imagined_ trading insults with somebody, or even holding a conversation that didn't run along the lines of 'leave me alone.' But, though they hadn't gotten along from the first, Trip had never treated him as weak because he was small, or deficient for being smart.

He followed Trip through the swarming labyrinth until they finally reached the right door. The noise only diminished slightly once they were inside the room: students chatted constantly with each other, or played games on their padds, not paying attention to the instructor at all. Few of them were in their seats, some even sat on the front of the desks, and one or two looked more than just a little bit friendly with each other. Trip made his way over to the instructor's desk and said something to her, then she looked up at Malcolm and smiled, nodding. She then stood up and walked over, Trip trailing behind.

"So you're Malcolm. Trip informs me that you've known each other previously."

Malcolm nodded, uncertain as to what to say.

"Well, you'll probably find that our curriculum is a little different than what you're used to, but Trip assures me that he'll assist you in any way he can. Do you have any questions at the moment?"

"No ma'am." He could see several of the other students watching him, including Chester Rodriguez. _Do you remember me, too?_ Probably… even somebody as annoying as Chester couldn't be accustomed to glasses of milk in his face at breakfast. _Well, that's one enemy to start out with_. Of course, with Trip it was also one friend, which put him farther ahead than he normally was.

Trip led Malcolm over to a pair of desks, sitting himself in one and waving at the other. "We're doing Browning right now." He wrinkled his nose.

"Oh?" Malcolm settled himself into the seat. "Elizabeth, or Robert?"

Trip groaned. "You have got to be kidding me, Mal. You don't actually _know_…"

"'Rats! They fought the dogs and killed the cats, and bit the babies in the cradles, and eat the cheeses out of the vats…'" Malcolm couldn't help laughing a bit as Trip closed his eyes and shook his head. "You never heard the 'Pied Piper of Hamelin?' I thought you'd be interested. Theft, deceit, a tie in to the vampire legends…"

"Oh, come on." Trip obviously didn't believe him. "This guy was into all that lovey-dovey stuff… he never talked about _vampires_. And that's a kid's story, not a poem."

" 'And I must not omit to say, that in Transylvania there's a tribe, of alien people who ascribe, the outlandish ways and dress, on which their neighbours lay such stress, to their fathers and mothers having risen, out of some subterraneous prison…'" The look on Trip's face as Malcolm recited was priceless. Trip looked so disgusted, it was funny.

"You know, Mal, you're a sick and twisted individual. I told you that before, when you were talkin' about throwin' dead bodies at people, but this is even worse."

"'It's not the chopping off of people's heads, that sort of thing can happen during the heat of discussion,'" Malcolm quoted, "'It's the praying over the body afterwards that chills the blood.'"

Trip gave him an odd, almost wary look. "You've been praying over dead bodies?"

Malcolm started laughing. "No. It's from a book. But you were talking about throwing dead bodies – I just thought I'd point out that there are things that could be worse."

"Sick," Trip repeated. "Totally sick. I'm gonna have to start sleeping with a light on and one eye open. I see you even _start_ with some weird rituals and chants…"

Before Malcolm could answer, a high tone sounded, and instantly students began migrating to their seats. "Like Midwich cuckoos," he murmured.

"Huh? Now you're just showing off, Malcolm."

"I would have thought that would _definitely_ have been your type of story. A town suffers a mysterious blackout, then later all the women have these identical alien children…"

"Oh. _Village of the Damned,_" Trip snorted. "It's not a very good movie… any of them, really."

_Right_. He'd forgotten. Trip could be very literate, if it involved movies and comic books of suspicious origin. _But don't get him to actually read or write anything._

"Before we start…" Ms. Kelley had to stand and wait for some of the noise to die down. "Before we start, I'd like to introduce a new student to our class. Malcolm Reed is here visiting us from England…"

"Why is he in this class?" Malcolm couldn't believe anybody interrupted, even someone like Chester. "He's ten-years-old or something."

"They start school earlier in England, dumbass. And he's smarter than you, not that it takes much." Trip didn't take well to Chester's insulting Malcolm. Clearly relations between the two of them hadn't improved, no matter _what_ Jonathan had hoped.

"Please." Ms. Kelley held up her hands, obviously used to battles between the pair. "You're correct… the curriculum in England _is_ different than in North America, and students do begin schooling at an earlier age."

Now Malcolm caught it, something that had been working on him since Ms. Kelley first spoke. She had very little of the typical American sloppiness in her diction. She must have studied in England at sometime, herself.

"So, if everyone can welcome Malcolm to our class, then we will resume where we left off last week: looking at Robert Browning's 'Love in A Life.' Now I asked you what you thought he was referring to…"

As the teacher spoke, she walked down each of the aisles, picking up what must have been homework from each student. Drawing even with Trip's desk, she stopped.

"Trip… may I have your homework assignment, please?"

Trip shook his head, not even looking up.

"That is the third assignment this month, Trip. Homework is worth a full ten-percent of your grade…"

Trip stared at her blankly – Malcolm recognised the look. It wasn't that Trip didn't understand; he just simply was going to refuse to argue or even acknowledge the statement in any way. _You just give up, because you might as well speak to the wall._ It _almost_ looked like Trip was trying to figure out where the voices were coming from, and how the words could possibly apply to him. Not even Jonathan had been able to win out against that look, and Malcolm knew that Trip actually _liked_ Jonathan.

"Very well, Trip. If you would see me after class…"

_That's not going to get you anywhere either_. Whatever was bothering Trip, Malcolm knew that the older boy would never discuss it – certainly not with a teacher. Oh, Ms. Kelley could _try_, but Trip once went for two days without food out of sheer stubbornness alone. Malcolm had witnessed that. And it seemed like he'd only gotten worse over the intervening months. Whatever was bothering him had to be very bad indeed. _He won't even tell me, and I'm his friend. He told me when he thought about _killing_ himself… which means that this has to be even worse_. What could be worse than suicidal depression, Malcolm had no idea, but he suddenly realised that there had to be something.

* * *

Trip gave Malcolm instructions on how to get to his next class – American History – then stood and waited obediently beside Ms. Kelley's desk.

"Are you having difficulty with the assignments, Trip? As I mentioned earlier, you have missed three of them in this month alone." Ms. Kelley closed the door, trapping the rest of the class outside. "Now I can understand missing one – especially this one, with the arrival of your friend – but three is hardly acceptable. Is there a problem at home?"

"Everything's fine, Ms. Kelley." No way was he telling her. Ms. Kelley was one of those do-gooders who thought that everything could be okay if you did the right things and talked to the right people. _But the world doesn't work that way._ He kept his face perfectly straight, not giving her a chance to guess at a bluff.

"Because I have been speaking with some of your other teachers and this seems to be a chronic problem for you. Mr. Allard says that you haven't handed in a single assignment this semester, and Mrs. Jenks says you fell asleep in her class last week. Not only that, but your attendance has been poor as well – you have been late for class more than eight times, and not one time have you had an excuse. I have spoken with your parents about this problem…"

"Yeah, they've told me about it." Let her think he didn't care… it wouldn't be too hard, and she'd give up quicker. What was it, in that story he'd found, _The Dirty Dozen?_ The story itself had been way better than the movie, and more explicit, too. _Les enfants perdues. The lost children._ Let her think that he was one of those, too far fallen through the cracks for anyone to reach. _After all, it's not like it's a lie_.

"Trip, this is a serious problem. You are in danger of failing a number of your courses… perhaps you would like to speak to a guidance counsellor?"

_Perhaps you would like to shove it up your ass and die?_ Yeah, that was the last thing he needed, some unqualified headshrinker telling him that nothing was as bad as it seemed. _That's because it's worse_. At least she hadn't commented on his clothes yet. The only person who seemed to have that one figured out was his dad.

_And you don't fight it, because you know it's just one more thing we've gotta deal with_. Just because Mom lost her job didn't mean things cost any less, but Lizzie and James were growing too, and they needed clothes and shoes and food… So he'd taken to returning all but one or two things each time Mom took him shopping, and doing his best to squeeze into what he could of the old stuff, and wearing what he could as much as possible. Charlie'd put his foot down about shoes though – said he wasn't going to have Trip limping around and doing permanent damage to his health by jamming his toes into something that didn't fit. They'd also clashed over food when Charlie discovered Trip stashing half his lunch back in the fridge so he could take it the next day instead of a new one. _And now with Malcolm…_ well, Dad would just have to learn how to deal with Trip cutting back a little further. Which would still be easier than convincing Dad to leave her… Dad believed in the vows of 'till death do us part.' _Even if it's mine_.

No, that wasn't it, either… Dad was just too romantic to see the truth – that faith and hard work weren't going to be enough, that Mom wasn't going to get better, that nothing was going to get better. He certainly wasn't going to tell Ms. Kelley or any guidance counsellor that, or that the reason he'd fallen asleep in class was because he'd spent the night going over the household budget trying to figure out another way to help make ends meet without getting caught. _I wish I looked older… then I could get a job myself._ Dad hadn't looked so hot the next day either; he looked like he'd spent the night crying or something.

Finally, Ms. Kelley seemed to get the message because she just sighed. "All right, then." She scribbled him a note excusing him for being late for his next class and waved him out the door.

_Maybe it's better if I do flunk out… or if I just quit. It shouldn't be too hard to fake up an ID…there's gotta be some place that'd hire me._ But Dad would kill him if he did that. They'd already discussed it. Not the fake ID part, but the quitting school. Dad wouldn't hear of it.

_"Trip, it's great that you can think _for_ yourself."_ Dad had said, _"But start thinking _about_ yourself for a change. You need school. This will work itself out. But you are not dropping out_." Trip had finally given in, realising that this was one case where his father was going to outstubborn him.

_Stop it. Or you're gonna lose it, and people are going to start staring._ Note in hand, he detoured quickly into the bathroom. He hid out in one of the stalls until the last straggler ran off to meet the last bell, then went out to the sinks and stared at himself in the mirror, daring his image to blink first. His stomach growled – pretty soon it'd start hurting. He turned on the water and cupped his hand underneath the flow, drinking until the grumbling quieted down. Most hunger pangs were about thirst… he'd heard that somewhere. And anyway, the whole 'breakfast, lunch and dinner' thing was a pretty recent development, evolutionarily speaking. The human body didn't need half the food in the modern diet – he'd be fine. Thankfully, Malcolm hadn't noticed him skipping breakfast… no need to worry about James and Elizabeth on that front, he did it so often now that they simply accepted it.

He debated skipping class altogether, and just meeting up with Malcolm for third period lunch, but decided against it. After all, Mrs. Jenks _had_ apparently been bitching about him lately, even if she did have a way of making physics the most boring subject in the world. _I can learn more from Henry Archer in a single _letter_ than I can from you in a month_. Not to mention the tedium of her in-lab experiments. _I spent a portion of the summer working out practical ballistics… watching a ball rolling down a ramp just doesn't do it for me when it comes to inertia_. Too bad he and Malcolm had never gotten a chance to finish their trebuchet – though, apparently, Jon had had kittens when he got a look at the materials and worked out the actual scale of it. _I wish I would've been there for that_. Apparently the camp staff hadn't been too impressed either – it had taken a lot of work on Dad's and Jon's part just to get them not to press charges.

_Ah, what the hell_. He changed his mind again; after all, he hadn't done his homework for that class either. _And the last thing I need is another lecture_.

He strolled down the hall in no particular hurry, knowing that he had immunity stuffed in his pocket. If anyone stopped and asked… well, Ms. Kelley _did_ say he had permission to be late.

He climbed the stairs, bypassing even the top floor. The fact that the door to the roof access stairwell was locked didn't bother him in the least – in fact, it kept out the undesirables. Pulling his lockpicks from his pocket – _Don't leave home without 'em_ – he quickly disabled the lock, and stepped through, closing the door behind him. The upper door was just as easy, and disabling the alarm took only seconds. Then he was on the roof, his own private thinking space. Nobody'd think to look for him up here, especially after he'd made sure everybody knew he was afraid of heights. _But as long as I stay away from the edges, I'm okay… after all, even if I fall it's only a short way to the floor._

He settled himself on the warm roof, letting the balmy autumn sun creep into his bones. Some days he just felt so tense, so brittle, his joints aching like he was an old man, instead of barely old enough to face criminal charges. And he couldn't do anything about it but get warm from the outside in – anything else and he'd have to confess to a doctor, who'd probably wonder why he was under so much stress._ But it's okay. I can deal with it_.

_If you could only see me now, Jon._ He stretched out, using the thermal properties of the tar-based surfacing to his advantage. Jon had been on his case half the summer to drop some of the pressure he put on himself. What would Mr. Future Starfleet think of the situation now? _You'd prob'ly pitch a fit, and then give me another one of those goddamn hugs._ At least Jon didn't feed him fairy-tale crap about everything being okay. After all, Jon had some grounding in reality. Nice as Henry could be at a distance, he could be a bit of an ass up close. Nope, Jon knew better than to discuss impossible options, though best not to tell _him_ anything about quitting school either. _I don't think you'd buy it as eliminating a source of stress_.

_But it wouldn't be the end of everything. There's still some possibility._ After all, didn't they say Thomas Edison flunked out of school? And all those professors who told Einstein that he couldn't do math… boy were they wrong. And what about that guy Gates, who dropped out of his first year of University – okay, so he finished high-school, but he still didn't do what he was 'supposed to.' And maybe he was a bit of a crook – Edison too, for that matter – _but I can do that._ After all, weren't he and Malcolm perpetrating a major fraud this very second? _Sometimes the ends _can_ justify the means._ In fact, there wouldn't even _be_ an America if people hadn't been willing to break the rules. And it didn't have to be forever, just until Lizzie and James were okay, then he could finish up, and upgrade what he needed to. _'Cause they don't need to suffer, and half the problem is due to me, anyway_. Really, when you added up all the damage he'd done over the years – to the carpets, to the walls, to the driveway, to furniture… the family must have spent a _ton_ on repairs and replacements. _Maybe we'd be in better shape if I wasn't so careless_.

He sighed, and stared up at the sun, letting it dry his tears before they had a chance to fall. None of it really mattered anyway, all any potential employer had to do was look at this kid's face of his and start laughing as they sent him away. He supposed he could start his _own_ business… something they let kids do, like yard work or something. But opportunities would be limited, because most people probably wouldn't buy a line like 'home schooled' to explain his willingness to work in the day-time.

_Sometimes I wish…_ No, he couldn't let himself start thinking that again. Because Lizzie and James needed him now, more than ever. They needed him sane and stable, not some screwed-up nervous wreck. _I owe them that, at least. They're too little to deal with any of this._ And with Malcolm here… well, that made things more complicated. At least James and Lizzie _knew_, but he could hardly ask them to run interference. And he'd been honest with his mother: Malcolm _did_ always have the best intentions, what he didn't have was experience. _Your dad might be a son-of-a-bitch, but…_

Trip sat up and pulled out his padd. Reaching into his pocket, he extracted an earphone and slipped it in, then connected it to the padd. Starting up a media file, he began a sketch with the stylus – of nothing, really. _Automatic drawing_. Apparently people did stuff like this years ago, thinking it was communication from the dead or something, though they tended to write, as though it would make the message clearer. Except writing was so… limiting. Some things couldn't be put into words, some messages were impossible to transcribe. He and Mr. Shigai had talked about that last week, after their game of Go – Mr. Hu had been sick and unable to make it that day, so there had been more time for talking.

_"Ah, but writing _is_ communication from the dead. All of the memorable people in history either wrote things, or had them written down. Oral history is nearly dead, and no one believes it anymore. Which is a shame: stories often tell us more than facts."_ Mr. Shigai hadn't been trying to be cryptic – Trip couldn't believe some people still held that stereotype – but he always said things in a way that made Trip have to think; unlike a lot of people, Mr. Hu and Mr. Shigai assumed that he _could_ think. They were the only two adults Trip felt he could really talk to … but he couldn't talk to them about his current problem, either. _'Cause they'd try to help too… and nobody can_.

A soft tone sounded in his ear, alerting him to the time. He saved his drawing file and stood up, stretching his neck a little to ease the tension. Two minutes to get down and meet Malcolm. He retraced his steps, resetting the alarm and locking the doors behind him. Time alone helped, let him get his mind back together. Or maybe it was the sunshine – maybe it did have magical properties like ancient people thought.

He made it down to Malcolm's class, just as the bell rang to dismiss them. He snagged Malcolm's sleeve before Malcolm could get lost in the crush. "How'd it go?"

"Interesting." Malcolm sounded like he actually _was_ interested in American History. "The instructor is dealing with the Rebellion at the moment…"

"The Rebellion…"

"The Revolution as everybody seems to call it." Malcolm smiled slyly. "When you made the colossal mistake…"

"We _won_ that war, and we became a freakin' _superpower_. How can you call that a mistake?" Trip couldn't help smiling a little, himself. _That_ explained Malcolm's interest immediately: if it had to do with a war, Malcolm wanted to know about it. "By the way, has anyone ever warned you about your obsession with violence?"

"I am not obsessed with violence," Malcolm protested.

"Mal…"

"I am obsessed with _mass_ violence." The smile lost any attempt at being sly, and gave way to a slight case of the giggles. "Now, according to the schedule you gave me, we're supposed to have lunch?"

"Yeah." Trip stopped at his locker and opened it without even paying attention to the lock. "But we're not going to the caf, because it stinks. I've got a better idea." He retrieved the lunches and handed Malcolm one. "Follow me." He led the way back to the roof; Malcolm knew all about his skill as a lock-breaker.

"Isn't this against the rules?" Nevertheless, Malcolm sat down cross-legged on the roof and opened the thermal sack that contained his lunch. "What are we having?"

"Well, yours is tuna fish… it's a good thing I finished them up, because didn't you say something about being allergic to grapes or something?"

Malcolm nodded. "And pineapple. And a whole bunch of other things. Why is it that allergies are always to something you love to eat? It's just not fair."

"I'm not." Trip took a small bite of his sandwich. That was another trick: if you ate with small bites and slowly, you didn't notice that you weren't eating as much. "I don't like spiders at all, let alone _eating_ them."

"People eat ants," Malcolm shrugged.

Trip set his sandwich down on his knee. "Well, thank you very much, Mal… I just needed to hear that while I'm having lunch." He took a large swallow of water – at least this was easier to get away with. Nobody got mad at you for drinking water instead of soda. They just congratulated you for being healthy and didn't stop to think that water was cheaper, especially when it wasn't your own. But there was no rule specifically stating that he _couldn't_ refill the bottle at school – not that anybody paid attention, either.

He saw Malcolm's gaze rest on the sandwich, and picked it up again. He took another couple of bites before he re-wrapped it and put it back in the sack.

"Is that one of…"

Trip snorted. "Malcolm, do you really expect me to eat a four day old sandwich? How much of a masochist do you think I am?" Inwardly, he cursed. Trust Malcolm to notice that Trip had one of the leftovers – but he couldn't bring himself to let them go to waste. Mom had spent way too much on food for that poker night. They couldn't afford to just throw it out.

Malcolm stared at him oddly. "Is everything okay, Trip?"

"Fine. Great. Couldn't be better." He tried to think of how to convince his friend to believe the lie.

"Because you didn't look to happy when you talked to your mother this morning, and you're acting kind of tense now." Yeah, trust Malcolm all right. The guy could read more into a single act than any ten-year-old going, or any thirty year old for that matter.

"Well, you heard Ms. Kelley. It's just the same-ol', same-ol'. They keep telling me I'm flunking out, shit like that. And I'm not any more popular than I used to be, so… same-ol', same-ol'," he repeated. After all, that was _part_ of it, wasn't it? _Best way to tell a lie isn't to lie_.

"Oh. Well, if there's anything I can help you with…"

Trip felt a sudden rush of guilt, and smiled to cover it. "Thanks, Mal… if something comes up where you can…" _Thing is, I _can't_ mix you up with this… it's bad enough for enough people already._

"Well… I might be able to help you with your English class homework. What she assigned today didn't seem all that difficult."

"That would be great, Mal." Trip did let his relief show. So Malcolm was going to buy the line about school after all. And the truth was, getting Malcolm's help on homework _would_ make things a lot easier. "I mean, don't let it get in the way of your own stuff or anything… I mean being friends with me is going to make it rough enough for you with some of the teachers… make sure you take care of yourself first."

Malcolm nodded. "Okay."

* * *

_No, not okay_. Not okay in the least. Trip was way too eager to accept Malcolm's offer of help. And that _was_ one of the sandwiches he'd offered the night Malcolm showed up, Malcolm was sure of it. _What's going on, that you can't tell me?_ Trip had never been heavy, but even his increased height couldn't explain the frailty of his appearance. Trip might have been complaining about spots on his face, but out here in the sunlight, Malcolm could see the lines and dark circles imprinting themselves below the other boy's eyes. And that discussion with his mother this morning seemed more than a little odd, even for someone as protective as Trip. _I don't believe for a moment that you took over making those lunches because you thought your mother would do it the wrong way_.

_After all, I'm ten… I'm not stupid_._ And I've got a sister, too, and I don't look after her like you do yours._ Especially not by taking over from his parents. He couldn't _imagine_ pulling his mother or father aside for a 'conversation' like Trip had. And he recognised other signs too – Trip's blatant disregard for the most basic of rules, or the way he treated adults, like Ms. Kelley for example. _You were like that when I first met you_. Trip used to clash over the stupidest of things – like eating breakfast or doing laundry – just to keep people from figuring out how badly he was hurting. _Maybe I should call Jonathan_. He dismissed the idea as soon as he had it. For one thing, Jonathan probably didn't know that Malcolm was even in the United States, and the more people who got involved, the greater the likelihood that their scheme would fall apart. For another one, if the problem were one that Trip would discuss with Jonathan, then he probably already had.

He didn't say anything though – the last thing he needed was Trip worrying about him. _If you think I'm worried, then you'll become too concerned about that._ Trip didn't like it when other people worried about him; he seemed to think that he wasn't worth worrying about. Instead, he smiled. "Well… if I understand correctly, tomorrow's assignment is to pick out a poem – any poem – and analyse its lyrics."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." The trick worked, because Trip's eyes narrowed and he stared at Malcolm. "Did you say _lyrics_? That's songs… not poems."

"Actually… songs are poems. Most of the original poems were sung, because most people couldn't read." He couldn't believe that Trip hadn't made that connection.

"Okay…" Trip seemed to be considering. "That works, I guess. She said _anything?_"

Malcolm nodded. "She mentioned that the point of the exercise was to get us used to looking at rhyme and meter _and_ meaning…"

Trip grinned suddenly. "You know… this might actually be doable. What did you have in mind?"

"I don't know. One of Shakespeare's sonnets maybe, or something by Dylan Thomas…" He found himself half afraid to ask what Trip might be considering.

"Malcolm… you're going to take an opportunity like this and squander it on something like _that_?" Trip shook his head. "When a teacher hands you this kind of a gift, you exploit it for all it's worth. Hmn… the question now, is what to choose from."

"Well… I could do something by The Clash, I suppose… especially if I bring in some historical context…" He knew what was coming, but couldn't resist the chance to needle Trip.

"Malcolm. This is _not_ about historical context."

Malcolm widened his eyes, trying to go for a shocked look. "You… you mean I _can't_ use the song most commonly listened to by British fighter pilots during flyovers of Iran during the 1980's?"

"The _what?_" Sometimes Trip could be way too easily manipulated.

"I never said The Clash was a _nice_ band. They were one of the original British Punk Rock bands – very anti-social for the time. Though, really, most of the best poetry is… it's a challenge of standards and a call for a new way of thinking." _The advantage to being extremely unpopular is that it leaves you lots of time to read_. Especially since most bullies were intimidated by the thought of libraries. Perhaps it was the sheer volume of knowledge and ideas – maybe they were afraid that their brains would get crushed.

"Like I said, Mal, you are way too obsessed with violence. _Mass_ violence. Which reminds me, Dad definitely says no building explosives in the back yard."

"I only did that once," Malcolm protested. "It was rather more… ballistic than I expected."

"So you said." Trip seemed to have forgotten his own interest in making gunpowder; maybe he'd figured out how. "Besides… we've got James and Lizzie around, and they might get hurt."

"Okay." He suddenly wondered which one of them was normal. After all, he didn't worry _that_ much about Madeline… it wasn't that they didn't get along, but they didn't spend much time together. But Trip obsessed over his siblings… that couldn't be healthy either. _That still doesn't explain your eating habits_. He had a funny feeling that even if Trip _hadn't_ been running late, the older boy wouldn't have eaten breakfast. _Not this again_. It would explain the gauntness, though. The question was: who was Trip mad at now?

The bell sounded and Trip stood up, draining the last of his water. "Come on. At least this class is interesting."

"Art?" Malcolm had been surprised when Trip suggested it originally – it didn't seem to fit with the teenager's personality.

"Yeah. It's…" Trip's face quirked into an odd expression – half smile, half sadness. "… relaxing. You don't have to think along pre-programmed lines, they just sort of let you go with the flow. Mr. K's cool that way."

"Mr. K." The thought of calling a teacher by his initial seemed almost too casual, even for Americans.

"Kinehan," Trip supplied. "He's great. I mean, he really encourages us to be creative and do what comes to mind. He says some of the greatest thinkers in the world – like Einstein and DaVinci – managed to come up with their theories because they exercised _both_ sides of their brains. I mean, everybody hears about the Mona Lisa… but DaVinci was an amazing engineer, too… at least conceptually. And Einstein… well, everybody says that warp drive proves that Einstein was wrong… but there's spots in his work where he makes allowances for possibilities like that. Like Relativity… it applies to _normal_ space, and we _can't_ beat lightspeed in normal space. But people'd just rather trample all over something and say that the old guys were wrong… they don't want to look and see that those guys might've still been right." Trip sounded almost defensive, like an attack on Einstein was a personal attack on Charles Tucker III.

"Father says that too." Odd to see a similarity between Stuart and Trip, but there it was. "He says that modern medicine has forgotten that insects can be useful." Malcolm shuddered. "Still, I think I'd like modern medicine instead of leeches and maggots."

"Um… yeah." Trip looked absolutely terrified. "I'd rather have surgery without anaesthesia than someone stickin' bugs in my system."

"You make it sound like you're a computer." Malcolm couldn't resist the opening. _Computer… bugs…_

Trip's expression flickered. "Sometimes I wish I was." He spoke softly, but Malcolm managed to make out the words.

Malcolm didn't ask for clarification, sensing that this was an uncleared combat zone for Trip. _Too many mines still there… and I don't know where they're buried yet_. The last thing he wanted was for Trip to blow up – he wanted to be able to help, not do more damage.

Partway through the art class, he suddenly saw it. He was still trying to figure out what to draw for the 'paper and pencil' assignment they'd been given when his eye fell on Trip's desk. Trip was buried in his work and didn't notice Malcolm staring, but he couldn't help it. _He really _is_ good_. Even with the simple tools of paper and graphite, Trip's drawing almost had an element of life. Malcolm could clearly see the three dimensions of the picture even through the distortions of perspective. What struck him the most though was the near perfect split between what Mr. Kinehan had referred to as 'space and negative space.' He almost sensed things _living_ in the dark portions of the drawing, but what chilled him was the almost complete absence of any kind of emotion to the piece. He blinked, and it changed – now it looked like something else. What had originally been a picture of – well, Trip – it morphed into what appeared to be a half-decomposed skull, the main feature of which was a pair of flat-dead eyes. _Computer eyes_. He blinked again, and the poker face returned, a perfectly normal teenage boy.

_Uh, oh_. He wondered if anyone else would notice – if they'd see the dual image, or just the first one to present itself. _But they must still feel disturbed_. He half-hoped that somebody _would_ see it, and would ask. Of course, Trip would probably just dismiss their concerns and convince them it was nothing… weren't teenage boys supposed to be morbid? Wasn't it a form of rebellion?

_But I can send a copy to Jonathan, if I can get a hold of it. I can tell _him_ what I think, and he knows better to believe that it's nothing._ Trip might be able to fool school counsellors, teachers, and even his own parents, but Malcolm doubted that the other boy would be able to fool a witness. _Jonathan's seen you in a bad state. He _knows_ it's not normal rebellion_. And maybe Jonathan could get through to Trip where no one else could. He'd done it before. Maybe he could help Trip, or get Trip the help he needed.

_I need to get a copy of that picture_. In the meantime he had to figure out something to draw, himself. _I wish I had more guidelines_. _And not just for this drawing, either._


	4. Stress Fractures

Disclaimer: I do not own _Enterprise_, or its characters. This is for entertainment purposes only.

Author's note: Given the sketchiness of data regarding Trip's family, I've had to make up a few details. Also… (x) equals a change in time, but not perspective. Thank you to gaianarchy, kate98 and silvershadowfire, my wonderful and patient betas. They are the ones who make me look good, I could not do this on my own. And sorry about the wait… it's been a busy year, and unfortunately creativity sometimes comes and goes.

Chapter 3: Stress Fractures

"Hey, guys… why don't you run upstairs and get changed?" Trip herded James and Elizabeth into the house, taking Elizabeth's backpack from her and hanging it up on the coat-rack. He picked up James' from where it had been dropped and put it away too. Then he tapped Malcolm on the shoulder and gestured at the kitchen as his siblings took off at a run. "Go on, help yourself to something to eat, I'll be right back." He hoped Malcolm would take him up on it, because there was something he needed to check on.

"Okay." Malcolm didn't argue and it was all Trip could do to hide his relief.

_Because I don't need an audience for this._ He climbed the stairs more slowly than his brother and sister, though they'd been fairly quiet themselves. _They've learned too quickly. They shouldn't have learned anything at all_. He moved almost silently to his parents' bedroom and tried the door. The knob turned easily under his hand, and he pushed the door open carefully.

_Oh God._ He could smell it, even from the doorway. He scanned the room quickly and found her, on the floor beside the bed. _You obviously didn't take too well to our discussion this morning_. He hadn't expected anything else, though; sometimes he swore half of this was out of spite.

He hauled her up off the floor – nothing graceful, he wasn't that strong – and half dropped her, half dragged her onto the bed. After covering her with a blanket, he turned to the business of cleaning up: recapping the bottle and using a towel from his parent's bathroom to mop up the mess where she spilled the glass, before scrubbing the floor with another towel and some cleaner to hide the smell. She was snoring pretty good… it didn't seem like she was going to throw up. _That_ was what really scared him – he'd found out that when people died from drinking it was usually from throwing up, then breathing it in, and drowning. As many fights as they found themselves in, he didn't want her to die. _You're my mom._ He tried not to start crying, he was too busy to start crying. James and Elizabeth needed their snacks. He might be able to trust Malcolm with a knife and a stove, but James was still iffy. And he had to get the housework done because Dad would have enough on his hands when he got home.

_Yeah, _when_ he gets home._ Dad was doing a lot of overtime lately, and Trip didn't kid himself. _I've got a good sense of smell, Dad – you think I don't notice?_ It had only been these last couple of days that Trip noticed the problem, but it was just one more thing out of all the little things Dad did to ignore or avoid the situation. _Leaving me to take care of it_._ Leaving _me_ to lie to James and Elizabeth about why you're not coming home. Leaving _me_ to pretend that everything's okay. Leaving _me_ to do _your_ job._ He took a deep breath, trying to keep his hands from shaking. _I don't have time for this… I'll have a nervous breakdown when I'm dead._

He checked once more to make sure his mother was okay, then left, closing the door quietly behind him. When he got back downstairs, he found James and Elizabeth telling Malcolm how to make grilled cheese sandwiches. Trip waited at the door to the kitchen, listening as they gave him contradictory instructions for a job he probably knew better than they did.

He smiled a little. _This_ was what family was supposed to be, wasn't it? People looking after each other? Too bad it was just the kids, and the adults didn't seem capable of taking part. He felt a twinge of guilt – Malcolm was a guest, he shouldn't be doing this sort of thing – but at the same time, it was good to have help.

"Hey guys." James and Elizabeth looked at him, with a question, and he nodded. "Yeah, Mom's got a headache again. She's lying down for awhile." They'd accept the lie – they wouldn't believe it, but they'd accept it – and hopefully Malcolm would buy it and not ask questions. He peered at the sandwiches. "Looks good." He turned to his brother and sister and narrowed his eyes. "Hands?"

Obediently, they held their hands up for inspection. Satisfied that they were clean enough, he nodded at the table. "Okay, looks like you've got things under control here, Mal. I've got some other stuff to take care of… you don't mind, do you?"

Malcolm shook his head.

"Great," Trip grinned. "Now you two behave yourselves. Listen to Malcolm, okay?" He watched as James and Elizabeth took their places at the table. "And remember, don't chew with your mouth open, and don't talk with your mouth full. Especially you, Lizzie." He shook a mock-warning finger at his sister. "Conversation can wait until you swallow. After all, Malcolm is a guest – there's no need to gross him out."

He left them in Malcolm's care again and headed to the back of the house. In the utility room he assembled his cleaning supplies – dustcloths, furniture polish and glass cleaner, things he could never leave unwatched around his siblings – and grabbed the small vacuum cleaners as well. In the living room, he set the automatic vacuum to work on the floor before going to work with the hand-held one on the furniture. Dad expected the house to stay neat, and if Mom wasn't going to do the job… _Somebody has to_. Partway through, he sensed somebody watching, and turned to see Malcolm standing in the doorway.

"Can I help?" Malcolm lifted his feet as the auto-vac sped by, sucking up any dirt that might have invaded since yesterday.

"Malcolm, you're a guest." Trip checked to see if there were any spots on the cabinet front he was polishing. "It's bad enough I've got you fixing your own food. You don't need to go diving into the housework, too."

"It's okay. I'm used to doing chores."

"It's fine," Trip lied. "I've pretty much got this down to a science anyway."

* * *

_That's why I'm worried_. Trip looked a little _too_ efficient at what he was doing. Somehow this seemed worse than when he was back at camp, and that had been disturbing too. _There's a difference between chores and this. Even Father doesn't expect me to clean the entire house_. Keep his room neat and do his laundry – whether at home or at school it was the same thing – and a few other things once and a while, but the level that Trip seemed to be going to was frightening. As soon as the older boy finished with the living room, which now looked like a showpiece, he moved into the hall.

"If you really want to do me a favour, you can make sure James and Lizzie wash up after they've eaten and before they go out to play." Trip unfolded a small stepladder he'd included in his cleaning materials and set it up so he could reach the top windows. "And keep an eye on them – they know they're not supposed to go out in the street, but sometimes Lizzie gets excited and forgets."

"Okay." _And when were you planning to do your homework?_ No wonder Trip was failing school, if this was his routine. It was amazing he even had the energy to _go_ to school every day.

_I doubt you'd be surprised that I was warned about you_. Fifth period Spanish, to be precise. Not that Trip had failed Spanish, but the instructor had muttered something that Malcolm probably hadn't been meant to hear. Since it was introductory Spanish, the man probably hadn't expected Malcolm to understand it either. _But Spanish is close enough to Portuguese for me to get the basic meaning_. Not that Malcolm earned himself any better a reputation by using unaccented Portuguese to comment on the man's failings as an educator. _But it's better than staying quiet_. He learned that one at camp too. The memory of Trip's reaction when Jonathan gave them lines made him smile. Then he stopped, halfway through ushering Trip's siblings out the door. That was important, too. It fit somehow with Trip failing school – he knew it.

_I'll have to look into that_. Trip had been truly appalled at the possibility of writing lines, and it couldn't have been the simple drudgery of the task. _After all, housework isn't all that exciting, but he does that_. Oh well, it was just one more item to add to the list of things to ask Jonathan. _How_ he could ask him, Malcolm still wasn't sure, but he knew he'd definitely have to ask.

He did as Trip requested, working on his English homework while watching the other two play. He didn't feel like joining them, even though he was closer to their age. He _was_ the same age as James, but that was only chronologically. _I've never been much for playing, anyway_. That had been one of the reasons he'd found himself becoming friends with Trip: Trip wasn't much of a kid, either. _We're both strange_.

He'd finished the English assignment and was halfway through the Spanish one when the sounds of cleaning finally stopped. He expected Trip to join him, and was slightly surprised when he didn't. Instead, there was a ten-minute lull before he sensed someone looming over him.

"You know when I said 'watch' I didn't mean you had to just sit here." Trip dropped down on the step beside him.

Malcolm shrugged. "That's okay. It's given me some time to do my homework. Have you decided what you want to do for yours, yet?"

"I dunno." Trip kept his eyes fixed on his brother and sister. "I don't really care, anyway. It's just a stupid English assignment."

"Didn't your teacher say that you've missed three already?"

"It's only ten percent of the mark." Trip pulled up a long blade of grass that reached up beside the step. He started shredding the narrow leaf, not even looking at what he was doing. "It's not that big a deal."

"I could help you."

"I think they call that 'plagiarism,' Mal." Trip began rolling the pieces of grass into little balls.

"I said 'help you,' not 'do it for you.'" That was cause for concern, too. Trip tended to want to do things for himself, not get other people to do them.

"Well, that's the only way it'd get done. Because I'm not doing it." He seemed to have forgotten his earlier interest. Apparently, even the opportunity to upset his teacher wasn't tempting anymore.

"I thought you said you liked Ms. Kelley." Malcolm added another item to his list. _Won't even torment adults anymore_. If anything would get Jonathan's attention, that would.

"What's that got to do with it?" Trip began flicking the balls of grass out towards the lawn. "Besides, that was before she got all busy-body nosy on me. And I though _Jon_ wanted to be a social worker. Like it's any of her goddamn business what my 'home-life' is like."

Malcolm kept silent. If Trip realised what he'd just said, he'd get even more upset.

"Besides. There's _nothing_ wrong. I just don't like doing homework, that's all."

"And your mother is sick." Something about that didn't quite ring true, but he wasn't going to call Trip on it. Sometimes the best way to find things out was to pretend that you didn't have a clue.

"Yeah. She gets migraines, same as me. That's why we've gotta keep it down." Except that he hadn't been 'keeping it down,' as he cleaned the house. Another lie, but Malcolm had no idea what it was meant to cover. And migraines didn't last all day either. Even Trip's had been only about an hour or so at worst. Nor did they occur daily, as far as he knew, so that _still_ didn't explain why Trip did all the housework, and not his mother. Even if she worked part-time, surely she had time to do some of it. And Trip clearly did the housework a lot – that was the only way to explain his proficiency.

"Hey, are you okay with casserole? I'm sorry I forgot to ask… but I just wanted to get it in the oven so it'd be done in time. I could make you something else if that's a problem." Out of grass to throw, Trip drew his feet up onto the edge of the step he was sitting on and rested his chin on his knees, crossing one arm in front of his legs and the other one underneath his knees and grasping his elbows. It was an odd position, but one Malcolm had learned he favoured.

"What's in it?" If it wouldn't kill him, Malcolm wasn't going to argue. _I don't want you going through extra work for me_. _You do enough as it is_.

"Just the basics. Meat, carrots, peas and some green beans. And potatoes."

"That should be alright." And it couldn't be that bad… he'd survived eating institutional meals for most of his life.

"I'll probably do up chilli come the weekend. It takes more time to put together. You okay with spicy food?"

"Is it spicier than a vindaloo?" Why was it that Americans assumed that Britons only ate bland foods? _Do you think you have the world's only supply of chilli peppers? Besides, the Empire once covered most of the Earth. You can find almost any kind of regional dish _somewhere_ in England._ Did they think that there were tea plantations along the coast of Dartmouth or something? _It wasn't _that_ long ago, historically speaking, that Hong Kong was still one of the colonies. Or India, for that matter._ Maybe historically to Americans – but to them, life didn't start until1773.

"I don't know… what is that?" Trip turned his head to look at him, a worried look on his face.

"If you don't know, then probably not," Malcolm smiled. It felt good being able to outdo Trip. After all, the older boy was a better athlete and artist and chess player. _And yet he hates most of it_. Trip was amazing at baseball, but it had taken a fight to get him to play. Jonathan had had to make it a punishment. And he refused outright to play chess – the only time he had, had been to prove that he didn't need to learn. _So when I know something that you don't know_… of course it was also great that Trip didn't treat knowledge from outside his own experience as a crime.

"Must be pretty hot, then," Trip decided. "So… what did you think of your first day of school?"

"Not too bad." Malcolm finished the Spanish homework and saved it. "It's nice not having to wear a uniform."

"Yeah, military school must suck like that."

_Actually, that's not the reason_. "Most schools have a uniform code, not just military ones."

"Malcolm, this is the twenty-second century. Don't tell me they still make you wear a uniform just to go to school." Trip sounded more than a little sceptical.

"We actually take our education seriously – or at least the educators do. And my father insists on a proper, formal education."

"Yeah, well my dad'll just be happy if I don't drop out," Trip muttered.

_Drop out?_ This was worse than he thought. A few months ago, Trip had been aiming for Starfleet, now he was talking about quitting entirely. "Why would you want to do that?"

"Do what?" Trip suddenly looked startled.

"Drop out of school." Inwardly, Malcolm cursed. Hadn't he decided that the best course of action was to stay quiet and _not_ draw Trip's attention to his move into unguarded conversation?

"Don't be ridiculous, Malcolm. Nobody's dropping out of school. That would just be stupid." Trip stood up suddenly, brushing off his jeans. "I gotta go check on dinner." He headed into the house before Malcolm could say anything else.

_Brilliant. Now he's going to be even _more_ tense, because he's going to worry about what he might say around you._ Malcolm lowered his own head to his knees, but he didn't cry. He didn't cry anymore, hadn't since the summer. He felt like crying though, because Trip clearly was on the edge again. Then he remembered something. _That could work_.

He looked up. "Excuse me, but would you two mind coming in for a moment?" Trip probably didn't want them out here without supervision, but he didn't want to leave Trip without supervision.

Fortunately, they didn't argue – they were beginning to accept him as their brother's surrogate. Instead, they dropped their toys and headed inside without a word. Then Malcolm went to the kitchen and began a search of the cupboards until he found the dishes. Without saying anything he began taking down the plates to set the table.

"What are you doing?" Trip came over to stop him. "You're a _guest_, Malcolm."

"I thought you said I was your brother," Malcolm countered. "You said we were blood-brothers, and that made us family." The ritual had been Trip's idea, surely he wasn't going to try to get out of it.

Trip scowled. "That still doesn't mean you have to work. You're ten. You're too young. There are laws against that."

"You _just_ turned thirteen," Malcolm countered.

"That's still older than you." Trip took the plates away and headed for the dining room.

"I didn't think that mattered to you." Malcolm took advantage of Trip's absence to grab the silverware. He then followed Trip and started laying out the places.

"Malcolm, you don't have to do this."

"Why not? You do." As planned, his words stopped Trip dead.

"Malcolm…" This time it came out as a warning.

"Don't try to tell me that you do a normal amount of chores for an American family." Not if he remembered conversations overheard at camp correctly.

Trip slammed one of the plates down with more force than necessary. "Malcolm. I'm fine. There is nothing for you to worry about."

_Well, I'm worried anyway. _ He shut up though, knowing that arguing with Trip would only make it worse. _Besides, if I don't worry about you, who will?_ Jonathan maybe… if Malcolm could somehow get hold of him without giving away their conspiracy. _As soon as I figure out how, I will._

_

* * *

_

_Damnit._ Trip clamped his jaw shut, and finished setting the table, trying to avoid looking at Malcolm. _That was just fucking brilliant_. _First you open your big mouth and tell him that you've considered dropping out of school, and then you gotta go jumping down his throat_. Getting mad wouldn't make Malcolm go away. Even if other people bought the denials just so they wouldn't have to deal with him, Malcolm had more than once proved his ability to be a pest. He was worse than Elizabeth sometimes. And that was a dirty trick, bringing up the whole blood-brothers thing.

_But there's nothing for you to worry about, Malcolm._ Malcolm had enough worries as it was – he didn't need to add Tucker issues to his list. _You didn't sign up for that shit._ _It's my problem. I'll deal with it._ Besides, Malcolm was the fragile, sensitive type. He _couldn't_ deal with this level of hassle. Malcolm was an idealist. Trip wished he could still be that way.

_And you're a way _better_ person, too._ _He_ never would have stepped in like Malcolm did that first night back at camp. _You were getting away scot-free, and _I _was the guy gonna get nailed. All you did was break curfew… I was the one who did a Break and Enter._ Malcolm was the guy who stood up to Jonathan too, when Jonathan was being too one-sided. Malcolm had _guts_.

_I can't even stand up to my mother, and she can't even stand up._ Nope, Malcolm was definitely a good person, and you didn't wish bad things on good people.

Maybe that was what this was: payback for all the things he'd done, some sort of universal punishment or something. _But why have you got to punish James and Lizzie, too?_ He went to get the glasses – the only way he could stop Malcolm from doing the whole job was to do it first – and caught a glimpse of himself in the polished surface of the refrigerator. What looked back at him wasn't at all pretty: a mess of spots and sunken hollows. _No wonder girls won't talk to you._ Girls liked good-looking guys, and he was _not_ one of those. _And the prize for ugliest man in the universe goes to…_ It wasn't fair, either. People kept saying what a good-looking family he came from, and he looked like something out of that Bradbury novel, the one they made into that movie. _'Something Wicked This Way Comes' all right… anyone'd agree with that_. Not one of the kids either, but someone who'd ridden that merry-go-round a few too many times.

The front door opened, distracting him from his thoughts. _Dad's home. Amazing_. It looked like Malcolm's presence could work temporary miracles. Why else would Dad have broken his new routine to show up for dinner? _Good thing I set him a place_. That had been more to pretend to be surprised when Dad didn't show up rather than any real expectation of his appearance.

He heard his dad thanking Malcolm for helping, and involuntarily winced. _Sure, Dad. But it means nothing when I do it._ He squelched the thought. Of _course_ Malcolm deserved to be thanked. _And I'm part of this family. It's my _job_ to help out._ You didn't need thanks for just doing your job. You just did it, in return for… well, in return for family and a house, even if the family was fucked up and the house a bitch to clean. _Especially_ if you didn't stay on top of it every day.

Charlie came into the kitchen and grabbed something to drink from the refrigerator, not even bothering to look at what it was. "Where's your mother?"

"Upstairs." Trip pulled six glasses out of the cupboard, trying to juggle them into his arms. "Sleeping."

"You're going to break those." Charlie headed out again, and Trip swore silently.

"Don't offer to help or anything," Trip muttered. Yeah, 'fucked up' was a good way to put it all right. When the ten-year-old houseguest was more concerned for people's welfare than anyone actually _in_ the family, 'fucked up' was about the only thing that _could_ describe it. He managed to get the glasses to the table in one piece, defying his father's predictions once again. _But then again, you have no idea how good I am at this, anyway._

Malcolm glanced up from laying a knife and fork beside one of the plates, but said nothing.

_No, I'm not okay. But I'm _not_ burdening you with this shit._ If Malcolm wanted to bring up the brothers thing, then fine. _I don't make James deal with it either. So there._ He couldn't win an argument with Malcolm on the subject, so they just wouldn't argue about it.

"After dinner could you give me some help with that art project?" Malcolm's question sounded like it was meant to cover something else, but… _maybe I'm just being paranoid._ Malcolm _had_ seemed a little out of his depth in art class.

"Sure," Trip agreed, cautiously. "If you don't like the class, I'm sure we can arrange to switch you into something else. I mean, now that they think you're supposed to be here and all, it shouldn't be a problem.

"That's okay. We probably shouldn't cause too much fuss – just in case someone does check records. I just need some clarification on some of the instructions."

"All right. After dinner, then." At least if he was helping Malcolm, he wouldn't have to worry about his own assignments.

Dinner ended up being very quiet; apparently, Dad had things on his mind that he didn't want to express in front of a guest. _Great. I wonder what that could be_. Malcolm didn't seem to notice, or maybe he was used to a lack of conversation over food. One plate remained empty. Fiona didn't make it down. Malcolm didn't comment on that fact either, and _that_ was worrying. It was as though he already knew that there was more to it than just a headache. This being Malcolm, he probably did.

_Damnit_. How had he thought he could hide something like this from the world's best observer? _You're an idiot, that's how_.

_Just don't ask, Mal. Please just don't ask_. After all, there was a major difference between knowing and admitting. And if Dad wouldn't admit it by now… _don't upset him any more than he already is_.

With dinner over, Charlie stood up and started to clear the table.

_Uh, oh._ Trip hurried to join in, and James and Elizabeth took their cue and disappeared. "Why don't you head on up, Mal?" Trip tried to sound casual. "I'll be there pretty quick."

Malcolm glanced back and forth between the two, then turned to follow the others. Charlie waited a bit before starting. "I got a call today at work. Care to guess what it was about?"

"I didn't show up for physics." Trip picked up a stack of dirty dishes with a jerk and headed for the kitchen. Charlie followed.

"That's the third time this year. And the semester has just started. I thought we had an agreement."

"We agreed I wasn't dropping out of school." Trip started putting the dishes in the dishwasher. "I just can't spend an hour and a half listening to her drone on about heat transfers and conductivity. I know more than _she_ does." He took his dad's stack and added them. "It wasn't my idea to take the stupid class."

"You need a science class. And physics _was_ your idea."

_Seeing as you gave me a choice between that and Baby Science_. Sure the school system called it 'General Science,' and it was the course most eighth graders took, but it would have been like showing up at the library for 'Story Time.' "I go when there's a test."

"Attendance is part of your grade. Like homework is. Which I'm told you're not doing, either."

Trip said nothing, just kept loading the dishes.

"This is becoming a serious problem with you," Charlie crossed his arms. "You used to be a good student."

"Relax, Dad." Trip slammed the door of the dishwasher shut. "I'm not doing drugs or anything." _You might want to look a little closer to your room for that_. "And I'm not robbing banks, either. Despite what my teachers would like you to believe, I _am_ a responsible person."

"Responsible? Not showing up for classes is _responsible?_ Talking back to your teachers is _responsible?_ I think you might want to look in a dictionary for the definition of that word." Charlie's voice grew louder and more tense with every sentence.

"Hey, at least I come home to look after my family," Trip shouted. "I don't spend my time out God knows where, doing God knows what. I don't spend my time getting plastered. Do you think that dinner just appeared by magic? Do you think they all do?" He shouldn't be doing this, but he was too tired to hold on anymore. At least Malcolm was upstairs and the floors and walls were pretty solid. "Who the fuck do you think takes care of this place?"

"Do _not_ use that language with me. I am your father…"

"You coulda fooled me. When was the last time you were home on time? You think _I'm_ not responsible? At least I'm not the one out screwing around."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Charlie's voice matched Trip's in volume now.

"Gee, Dad, I don't know. I guess that perfume that keeps clinging to you is part of a new project. The newest thing in highways management?" _What do you think I am, an idiot?_

"You've got no right to accuse me of something like that." Charlie's tone dropped, became almost menacing.

"No right? No _right_? I'm your fucking _son_. Your _kid_. I mean I know I was a mistake, but that's hardly my fault."

Charlie closed his eyes. "Don't go there, again, Trip. You were not a mis…"

"Bullshit." _Premature, my ass_. Like that was anything other than just a convenient explanation to cover the truth. _You weren't ready for me at all._

"I am not even going to continue with this." Charlie raised his hands as though to cover his ears.

"Yeah," Trip muttered. "Soon as it comes around to your lack of accountability…"

"Fuck." Charlie grabbed Trip's shoulders and shook him lightly. "This is not about what happened when you were born. And even if – _if_ – you weren't planned, it hardly means that you were a mistake. Furthermore, if I wasn't accountable, we wouldn't even be having this discussion, because one of us wouldn't be here. What this is about is the fact that you _were_ given a life, and you're throwing it away. Take it from me: it's very competitive out there, and if you don't want to believe me, you can ask your old counsellor. Do you think he got into Harvard by slacking off? By skipping his classes? You won't be able to get any kind of job if people don't think that you're reliable."

"Parentage might have played a factor," Trip shot back. "The fact that he had some. And he goes to Stanford." Okay, so Henry was a jerk, sometimes. But he'd probably had a mother who knew what time of the day it was on a regular basis, and a father who knew the East coast from the West. _You'd think that working for DOT would require _that_ much at least._

"What are you two screaming about?" Fiona staggered in, shielding her eyes from the light. "Could you please keep it quiet? I have a headache."

Trip turned and ran, not going anywhere in particular, but needing to get away. The kitchen suddenly felt too small. He felt trapped there, like if he stayed, he'd die. He found himself at the old tree in the yard before he stopped. He glanced up at his room. Malcolm had a light going up there – with any luck he wouldn't have been able to hear much, if any of the argument.

_Why did I say you could stay?_ How could living here be an improvement over what he'd had? Trip leaned against the tree-trunk then sank down to the ground. At least he could breathe out here, but that didn't change anything. _I don't think. I just said you could stay, like there was nothing wrong._ He could have tried to suggest something else. It wouldn't necessarily have given away that there was a problem. _Tucker, you are such a shit._ And now: his stomach hurt, his throat hurt and his head hurt. It didn't sound like anybody was coming after him either.

_Yeah, real responsible Dad. Good to know you love me_. He put his head down on his knees, too tired to fight the exhaustion anymore.

* * *

Malcolm winced, listening to the shouts. He crept out into the hallway and down the stairs, staying as silent as possible. _There is definitely something wrong_. Trip only shouted when he was well past the point of being hurt – when he was feeling desperate. The conversation was all wrong, too. _You sound like you're the mother_. One of Trip's comments explained a lot too, confirming the suspicion that Fiona's problem was much more than mere 'headaches.' _So that's what you've been dealing with_. No wonder the older boy was under so much stress.

Then Fiona weaved her way past, not seeming to notice him at all. For once, he was grateful for his innate invisibility. Then Trip ran out, and the back door slammed behind him. _Uh, oh_.

Then Charlie and Fiona began to argue, in lower tones.

"God, look at you." Charlie sounded even more disgusted than he had when Trip called himself a 'mistake.' "Our son's flunking out of school, and you can't even pay attention."

"I'm not the only parent around here. Maybe if you spent some time in the house once in a while, maybe if he actually had a father to look up to, he wouldn't _be_ in such a mess." Fiona attacked back. It was clear where Trip got his arguing technique.

"At least _I'm_ capable of _being_ a role model. Or would you prefer he followed in your footsteps?"

"Really? When was the last time you actually disciplined him? Your son walks all over you. He's got more balls than you do."

Malcolm knew he shouldn't listen in, and that he should probably chase after Trip, but he couldn't move. His mother and father argued, yes, but not like this. This was vicious. They weren't arguing about an issue, they were just out to hurt each other. _And how can you say those things about Trip?_ He suddenly found himself wishing he hadn't imposed on his friend. _Things weren't _that_ bad, back home._ Not enough to justify putting Trip under extra stress. _Why couldn't you have just said something to me? Given me a hint? Then I wouldn't have come._

Finally, he tore himself away and headed after Trip. He found his friend under the tree, fallen asleep. He considered waking the other boy, but decided against it. _You need all the sleep you can get._ Instead, he went back in and up to Trip's room, and pulled the quilt off Trip's bed. He carried it down and outside and used it to cover Trip.

He went back inside, and Charlie caught him in the hallway. "Everything okay, Malcolm?"

Malcolm shook his head. Trip would probably hate him for this, but Trip was in over his head. "No sir. Trip's fallen asleep outside. He doesn't look very good."

Charlie closed his eyes, looking like he wanted to cry. "Okay, thank you." He headed outside and Malcolm followed.

Charlie picked Trip up carefully, and carried him inside. Trip didn't even stir, not even when Charlie laid him down on his bed. Charlie took Trip's shoes off and laid them beside the bed, before straightening out the quilt.

"Is he going to be okay?" Malcolm sat down the rollaway bed that he'd been given.

Charlie sighed, then seemed to catch himself. "He'll be fine. He's just stubborn, that's all."

_You believe that about as much as I do._ Charlie also seemed to know almost as much about what to do about it as Malcolm did. _Mrs. Tucker is wrong… you do care about him._ But Trip couldn't see it either, because he was so busy trying to handle everything on his own.

_I should go home._ Except that would risk exposing their fraud, and then Trip would be in _big_ trouble. Trip had enough problems as it was, he didn't need everybody's worst suspicions confirmed, which would give them even more reason not to look for the good stuff in him.

He waited until Charlie left, then tiptoed over to the computer and turned on the monitor, praying that the light wouldn't wake Trip up. He typed in Jonathan's contact information and scanned in a copy of the picture. He didn't send a commentary – he figured Jonathan could just look at the source and guess who it was from. Or at least who'd drawn the picture. Better if Jonathan figured that Trip sent it himself, rather than figuring out from a message that Malcolm was behind it and sounding an alarm.

_Please, please, please figure it out. Somebody needs to do something._ Then he returned to his bed for his vigil.

* * *

"What the hell?" Jon stared at the picture that appeared on his screen, seeing but not believing. He rechecked the source data – apparently, it came straight from Trip. _Which is strange in and of itself._ He'd been about ready to head out for the evening. Now he wasn't so sure if he wanted to. _That is the scariest damn thing I have ever seen in my life._ This was no random drawing – there were definitely elements of 'self-portrait' in it, clearly visible to anyone who really knew the artist.

_Then again, there aren't many of those – are there, kiddo?_ Hell, he hadn't even known that Trip_ could_ draw – his handwriting was certainly no indicator. _What is it this time?_

"That is freaky." Gilbert, his roommate, leaned in over his shoulder. "Can I have a copy for my desktop?" He glanced at the upper corner of the screen. "Hey, it's that guy again. Remember, the one I traced for you? Like I said, he's on a couple of my favourite forums."

"Really? I must have missed that part." Gilbert was a computers and engineering freak. He'd practically had an orgasm when he found out just what Archer family Jon was a part of.

"Yeah. He's got some pretty cool insights, too. Really out of the ordinary, but some of them work after you think them through a bit. I mean, some of his ideas really put a different spin on one of my projects – helped me figure it out. I think he's one of those really old-school guys with not a lot of formal training, but he's got the practical experience. I think he's on one of my computer forums as well, but we don't tend to be too big into I.D.'s over there." In other words, a hacker forum. Oh yeah, Trip would fit in well there. Rules were not exactly his style.

_I hate to break it to you, buddy, but your 'old-school' genius is only thirteen years old._ Gilbert probably wouldn't be too impressed upon finding that out. _But genius could certainly describe him. Especially if you put 'twisted' in front of it_. Jon had to admit, he missed the little monster. Letters back and forth just weren't the same. They lacked that horror quality that only a face-to-face encounter could invoke. "I met him over the summer. You're right, he's pretty cool." _For a miniature felon with cannibalistic tendencies._ His arm still hurt every time he thought about the brat.

"Wow." Gilbert tapped the screen. "But that is sweet."

"I'll keep that in mind." Then again, if Gilbert thought it was cool, mightn't Trip as well? What with both of them being hackers?

_I wish I could believe that._ If Trip were a normal kid, or even a normal overly-bright kid, then maybe he could. But he couldn't lose the image of Trip huddled up in the woods in the pouring rain and crying his eyes out. Or broken to pieces and dripping with blood,willing to sacrifice even his own life.

Something else about this didn't seem right. Trip wasn't the type to reach out for help on his own – not in any way as obvious as this. _No, someone else had to do that, didn't he?_ But even if Trip sent a copy to Malcolm, and Malcolm sensed a problem, the question still remained. Why had Trip sent a copy to _him_?

_What's going on here, kiddo?_ Unfortunately, with Trip it could be anything. He'd have to do some digging to find out. But somehow, a party didn't seem all that important anymore.

* * *

_How the hell did I get here?_ Trip sat up in his bed and rubbed his eyes. Last thing he remembered was being outside, he couldn't recall having come in.

He glanced towards the spare bed where Malcolm slept, fully dressed and on top of the covers. _Ah, hell. I promised I'd help you with that homework, and instead I pass out on you. Trip Tucker fucks it up again._ Why Malcolm put up with him, he had no idea. _You can't be that lonely. _There was just one explanation: Malcolm actually liked him. _I don't deserve a friend like you._

But that was the way it worked out. _First real luck I've had in my life._ Still, if bad things were a universal punishment, you had to wonder what Malcolm'd done wrong. Between all the bullies and a screw-up friend, he couldn't catch a break. _And it's not like I was nice to you, to start._ Hell, he'd picked Malcolm as a spineless goody-asskisser on first sight. _I'd never have wasted the time. I'm glad you did._ It was Malcolm who made the effort. It was Malcolm who didn't back away. What Trip couldn't figure out was why. After all, Malcolm wasn't stupid, he was a good judge of people, so why would he get himself wrapped up with such a pain in the ass? _I couldn't even stop those guys from beating you up_. Hell, they'd almost _killed_ Malcolm after Trip got involved.

_Yeah, Mal, you really picked a winner_. He tiptoed over to his computer and punched in a few codes. He couldn't sleep, so he might as well do something. He caught sight of a piece of information on the screen. Someone had just used this computer to contact Jon. Directly, too. Trip glanced back at Malcolm then shrugged. You couldn't blame him really. Jon was one of the few people ever who treated Malcolm like something other than a freak, and then Malcolm's dad went and forbade Malcolm to talk to him.

_I'll bet that freaked Jon out_. Yeah, getting a message straight from Trip Tucker – that would be a new one. Suddenly, Trip froze. _What did you tell him? If he finds out that you're over here… that's a huge risk. You shoulda asked me first… I could've re-routed it_. Hopefully, he just told Jon he was visiting. Jon would probably buy that, and not go digging. Jon could be trusting that way, and Malcolm would be the _last_ person he'd expect to lie about something like that. _If it was me, you'd check it six-ways to Sunday. From Malcolm, it's believable._ And for good reason: Malcolm was a good kid. _Trip_ was the bad influence.

_Might as well live up to it._ He logged into one of his favourite forums – one specifically dealing with network security issues, and how to overcome them. _In other words, a hacker's heaven_. One post caught his eye, specifically about artwork. Odd, for a forum like this.

_Son-of-a-bitch_. He looked back at Malcolm who still lay dead-still on the bed. _You crazy son-of-a-bitch… what'd you send him _that_ for?_ His picture stared back at him with its dead, mechanical eyes. Only one way it got up here, and that was if Malcolm sent it to Jon, and Jon's crazy-ass hacker roomie got hold of it. Several people had already commented – Trip decided to add one of his own.

_The artist clearly has deep-seated issues of inadequacy. There are several traces of an unhappy childhood – this person probably had over-achieving parents._ He tapped his teeth and thought._ In all likelihood, the artist is either suicidal, or has had thoughts of suicide in the past. This work displays many indicators of an anti-social personality, possibly tending towards criminal behaviour and violence. This person probably belongs in a mental institution._ Given that ol' Stanford boy hadn't included a credit, most people would probably assume it belonged to him. And if Jon saw the comment, he'd probably laugh his ass off. Jon already knew Trip was screwed up. He didn't need any picture to tell him that. _And me bein' a smartass will prob'ly make you feel better anyway._

He fooled around a little more, until light began to invade from outside. _Early to bed, early to rise_… well he sure as hell wasn't healthy and wealthy, _and I doubt anybody'd go with wise_.

He shut down the monitor and tip-toed carefully down the hallway to the bathroom. After a quick shower and change, he headed downstairs to start breakfast.

"Hello." The voice from the doorway made him jump.

"Jesus, Mal. You always give people a heart attack first thing in the morning?" Those were the two truly freaky things about Malcolm: he could move so silently that he could sneak up on a bat, and he was at his best early in the morning. _And I'm not_. Waking up was the worst part of the day – it generally happened just after he managed to get to sleep.

"Sorry. Can I help?" It seemed that Malcolm still had trouble with the basic concept of 'guest.'

"Sure. I'm just thinkin' pancakes and sausages – an' orange juice, of course. Just gimme a sec, though… I need coffee." He reached into the pantry, and pulled out the beans. His one indulgence, and one he'd have to give up. _With Malcolm here, we _really_ can't afford it._ He'd given Jon a lecture about coffee over the summer. One thing about that guy, he had absolutely no taste. But premium ingredients cost premium cash, something they just didn't have.

He ground up just enough for a single serving – he'd make more later for Dad if he had to. _If_ Dad was even still around. _Leave early, come home late_. Yeah, if Dad _wasn't_ fooling around, it'd be a miracle.

"So, what'd you and Jon talk about last night?"

Malcolm paled, and looked like his old, scared self. "Nothing much." Clearly a lie, but Trip decided not to call him on it. He didn't want to fight this early in the morning, and he _especially_ didn't want to fight with Malcolm.

"I'm sorry I didn't get to give you that help with the art project. But they'll prob'ly give you a break, seein' as it's your first week and all." He sipped at the brew, then took a bigger swallow.

"That's okay," Malcolm said. "You were tired."

"Yeah." He couldn't think of anything to explain it, anything that would come off as believable. Especially not since he didn't know what Malcolm saw or heard last night. Instead, he started laying out the ingredients to make lunch – no sense getting breakfast ready _too_ early, after all. He checked the fridge and had to fight not to swear. It looked like Dad had been cleaning again, and threw out the leftover sandwiches. _Why do you gotta do that?_ Did Dad _want_ them to go bankrupt? There was nothing really wrong with the sandwiches – a little stale maybe, but they wouldn't kill him.

"So, what do you want? I'm guessing PB&J is out… but we've got some ham and some cheese in here, and a little roast beef…"

"Any of those would be fine."

Trip turned around, holding a block of cheddar in one hand and a package of deli meat in the other. "Malcolm. You're the one that has to eat this. Don't tell me that you don't have a preference."

"Ham, then." Malcolm's eyes dropped to the label before he spoke, naming the one that Trip already held.

_You gotta be the polite one, don't you?_ He thought he'd broken his friend of that habit – obviously more work needed to be done. _I'll have the PB&J._ Nothing wrong with it really. Carbs, protein, and cheap. The perfect food. So what if people thought it was boring? Food wasn't about fun, food was about sustenance, pure and simple.

He got the lunches assembled, then started preparations for breakfast.

"Chocolate sour-cream pancakes okay with you?" They sounded weird, but tasted good. "They're Lizzie's favourites."

"Chocolate sour-cream?" Malcolm sounded a little sceptical.

"Try 'em. If you don't like them, I can make you something else." Trip paused. "You're okay with chocolate, aren't you?"

Malcolm nodded. "I had my shots last week. I should be okay with almost everything for the rest of the month."

"Shots?" Trip winced. "You need shots so you can eat? That's horrible. I'm glad I'm not allergic to anything other than spider-bites. I _hate_ going to see the doctor. All that time in the hospital over the summer nearly drove me nuts." He paused. "As long as you're sure you're okay. 'Cause I don't want to make you sick." That was another thing he hadn't considered. If Malcolm went to the doctor, then the doctor would need medical records, and would probably inform Malcolm's parents, and they'd be busted.

_Yeah, I really didn't think this through._ Oh, well… four little words would take care of it, in a way everybody would believe. _'It's all my fault.'_

_

* * *

_

"These are very good." Malcolm swallowed another mouthful of the odd pancakes and reached for his glass of orange juice. Trip had actually made the juice from fresh oranges – he'd argued that anything else wasn't worth drinking.

"Well, I figured if they could do it with donuts… it's just a little trickier cooking them." Trip shrugged.

"I coulda told you they were good. Trip makes the best pancakes," Elizabeth avowed.

"Don't talk with your mouth full." Trip's voice was stern, but Malcolm could see the flash of pride on his friend's face.

It was just the three of them and James for breakfast. Trip's mother had walked in while they were preparing it and promptly walked out again, and Trip's father had left shortly after putting Trip to bed.

_He works two jobs_. Malcolm realised. It was the best explanation for it, and it fit with the timing. It also meant that Charlie got about as much sleep as Trip – no wonder they were both on edge.

He glanced over at Trip who was herding his sister away so he could brush and braid her hair, while James trotted after them. _I bet he hasn't told you, because he doesn't want to put more pressure on you. He doesn't want you feeling more guilty than you already do._ Malcolm felt rage bubbling up inside him and it was directed at Fiona. _How can you do this to your family? I may not like my father, but he wouldn't let me starve myself, and he wouldn't leave me to look after Madeline and the house and everything else._ And Trip _was_ starving himself: he'd eaten little last night and hardly anything this morning – the bulk of the food went to James and Elizabeth… _and now me_. The sandwich he'd made himself for lunch barely even qualified: he'd spread the peanut butter and jelly so thin that they'd hardly provide more than flavour. Even if Trip didn't starve himself to _death_, he'd end up doing permanent damage to himself, if he hadn't already.

Malcolm slid down from his chair and collected the dishes from the table, putting them in the dishwasher. He knew it would irritate Trip, but his friend would just have to deal with getting a little help.

Trip did glare at the clean table when he returned, but otherwise didn't comment on it.

"Hey, I've got practice today… would you mind collecting James and Lizzie for me, and walking them over to the field? It's only a couple of blocks." Trip put the appropriate lunches in the appropriate backpacks and handed Malcolm his.

"Sure." Malcolm picked up his padd with his homework on it, and watched as Trip finished getting his brother and sister ready. Every little bit helped, right?

* * *

Trip listened impassively to his coach's speech. "…academic probation, Tucker. You've got two weeks to straighten up, or they're pulling you off the team. You're supposedly smart, I'm sure you can figure out what that means."

_Yeah, no more having to listen to you_. There was always an upside if you looked for it. The only other thing it meant was another black mark on his record, which already looked like the bottom of a deep well at midnight with a new moon.

"Now get out there." Coach shoved him towards the field, and he jogged out to where the offensive line had already assembled.

He took the snap and faded back for the throw, scanning for a receiver. Then he felt it, a body slamming into his and taking him to the ground, but his foot caught, and didn't move with the rest of him. He _heard_ a snap this time, and his leg exploded with pain. He screamed, he couldn't help it.

"Jesus Christ!" Coach didn't sound angry, he sounded scared.

Trip looked down at his leg – the white cloth of his pants had turned red, and he saw…

He blacked out.

* * *

_Ohmigod._ Malcolm jumped up as Trip started screaming. He caught a glimpse of the damage, then grabbed James and Elizabeth and turned them away. They didn't need to see… that. Not only was Trip's leg broken, but the bone had torn its way through the sparse flesh, creating a bloody mess. He hoped Trip would be okay… he hoped that Trip would _live_.

_I have to get hold of his father._ Didn't Trip say he worked for the Department of Transportation or something? "Let's go call your father, okay?" Better Charlie than Fiona.

"Is Trip hurt?" Elizabeth began to cry.

"Yes, but they're taking care of him." It hadn't looked good, though. Malcolm hadn't seen anything like that outside of the movies. Even when Jonesy had beaten Trip up… even that hadn't looked like this.

He glanced back instinctively. Trip was shaking, and the coach was yelling at someone to get blankets and call an ambulance. _Shock_, Malcolm realised. The problem was that everyone else seemed to be suffering from it, too. They stood around, unable to move.

"James. I need you to go to the office and tell them to call an ambulance, then call your father and tell him that Trip needs to go to the hospital. Take Elizabeth with you. And hurry." Malcolm barely waited for them to start for the office before he turned and sprinted for the locker-room. He started grabbing clothes until his arms were full and headed back for the field. They might not be blankets, but they'd work.

The coach looked at him gratefully when he dropped the pile of clothing beside Trip. They worked to cover Trip up. The coach's jacket was already serving as a makeshift bandage.

_Thank-you, Father, for making me listen to all those first-aid lectures._ Stuart had spent hours drilling his son in life-saving techniques, even as Malcolm had grown frustrated, wondering when he'd ever use them. He'd never imagined that Trip would be the one he'd use them on – at least not for something like this. Once again he found himself straining desperately to hear the sound of an ambulance, and praying it would get there on time.

"How the hell…" the coach muttered.

_He's been starving_. To a normal, healthy teenage boy the hit would have meant nothing. But Trip's non-eating habits had given him a good set of brittle bones and nothing to protect them. His body was trying to grow, despite the fact that it had no materials to work with. The wrong impact at the wrong angle… _don't you dare die. Please, don't you dare die._ He heard it finally, the high-pitched cries of help on the way. Professionals rushed in and took over, leaving Malcolm to sit and wait.

(m)

_At least this time I have something to do._ For the second time in less than six months, Malcolm found himself waiting in a hospital lobby for news of Trip's condition. James and Elizabeth sat on either side of him, looking to him for support. Malcolm and James might have been the same age chronologically… _but I'm Trip's friend, which makes me older to them_. They relied so much on their brother, and now that responsibility had fallen to him.

Charlie had picked them up at the school and raced straight to the hospital. Now he hunched over an endless set of forms – Malcolm overheard 'permission for surgery' being one of them. Every now and then the man paused to pinch the bridge of his nose; he looked like he was about to start crying. Or he'd look back at his kids and try to smile, but the smile wouldn't hold.

"Is Trip going to die?" Elizabeth _was_ crying, now that Malcolm told her she didn't have to be brave. _She_ was only six, and to her, Trip was the world.

"I hope not." Malcolm couldn't think of what else to say. 'No' might be a lie, and he hated when people lied to kids about stuff like that. Obviously, Elizabeth knew what dying meant, so there was no sense pretending that it couldn't happen. _And I _don't_ know._ Trip had been so pale and by the time they took him away, he looked already dead.

Finally, Charlie came over and joined them. "Thank you." He sat down beside James and took his son's hand, probably just needing something to hold on to.

"Can I get you some coffee, sir?" Of any of them, Charlie had to be the worst off. Little sleep, and his worst nightmare coming true. Malcolm could see it on the man's face – he might _try_ to be impartial, but he loved Trip best. The troublemaker, the source of stress, and yet somehow the favourite. So much so, that Trip interpreted concern as attempt to control.

"Excuse me, Mr. Tucker?" The woman who spoke didn't sound sympathetic. She sounded almost _too_ professional. "Can I ask you a few questions about your son?"

"Who are you?" Charlie blinked, looking confused.

"Dr. Lana Mendez," The woman looked annoyed at having to identify herself. "In an _unusual_ case like this, we have some routine questions…" The emphasis she put on 'unusual' made it clear that a sports injury wasn't the issue.

Charlie closed his eyes, and Malcolm felt a sudden rush of terror. "You think that Trip is being abused." Charlie said it calmly and matter-of-factly, almost as though he'd been expecting this.

"Mr. Tucker, allow me to be frank. Your son Charles shows signs of advanced malnourishment. Do you have another explanation for it?"

"Trip sometimes doesn't eat," the words came out before Malcolm could stop them. For all he knew he was doing more damage, but it wasn't fair to see Charlie accused of hurting his son. "He does it himself. Nobody makes him."

"You are?" Dr. Mendez raised her eyebrow at the small, dark haired boy whose accent didn't fit.

"Malcolm Reed, ma'am. I'm a friend of Trip's. And I know other people who could tell you the same thing." He hoped she'd look at the other two: well-fed and taken care of. Admittedly, Trip was the one who did the feeding and taking care of, but that only proved that he had the opportunity to eat if he wanted. If anybody did the hurting in the Tucker family, it wasn't Charlie. It was Fiona. _But if I say anything about _that_, Trip will kill me._ Trip really _wouldn't_ want this lady poking around. "He knows it upsets people. That's why he does it." At least that was why he _used_ to do it: he'd tortured Jonathan that way all the time.

She pulled him off to the side. "If you want to help your friend, Malcolm, you can tell me the truth. This has been more than sometimes…" She bent over to talk to him, her posture one of intimidation.

"It _is_ the truth." Malcolm interrupted, frustrated. "Trip doesn't eat by his _own_ choice, not anybody else's. He's been like that as long as I've known him. When he's mad at people, that's what he does."

"Do you think your friend is mad at his parents?" Dr. Mendez just wouldn't quit.

Malcolm looked her straight in the eye. "No." Trip would be proud of a lie like that: an outright falsehood spoken with all the certainty of unqualified truth. "Trip loves his parents. I've never even seen them argue." That much was true: at camp, Trip had argued with Jonathan – not his parents – and he hadn't actually _seen_ the fight with Charlie. "Ask him." He felt his stomach tighten as he spoke. What if she _couldn't_ ask Trip? "He'll tell you."

"I will be asking him," she confirmed. "Do you remember when your friend was hurt over the summer?"

_What?_ What did Charlie or Fiona have to do with _that_? "Yes, I do. Some people were going to beat me up, and Trip made them stop. _Jonesy_ did that. We were at a camp. His parents weren't even there." He suddenly knew what his father meant when Stuart referred to 'report reading idiots.' "And neither were mine, or anybody else's. That's why they call it _camp_." Dr. Mendez might have had a medical degree, but she wasn't very good with people. Not only that, but she was treating him like he was a small child. He hated that.

_How would Trip deal with someone like this?_ Trip seemed to have no difficulty in letting adults know he was annoyed. Taking a deep breath, Malcolm straightened up. "Also, Dr. Mendez, I am not stupid. I know what you're trying to do. You're trying to blame Trip's mother and father for what happened. They had nothing to do with it." He got angrier. "I know that you think that because I'm only ten that I'll say whatever you tell me to, or that I can be tricked into saying what you want. But you're wrong."

Dr. Mendez stepped back as though he'd hit her. "I'm only trying to help your friend."

"No, you're not. Or you wouldn't hurt him by saying those things about his parents." Maybe Trip couldn't be hurt by what he couldn't hear, but if he did find out… "They don't hurt him." He turned and stomped back to where Charlie still sat with his other children.

"Thank you, Malcolm." Charlie smiled weakly. "I didn't quite expect…"

"It's not fair to say that you hurt him." Malcolm could feel himself shaking. The last time he'd told off an adult… well, that had only been Jonathan. And Jonathan wasn't anything like Dr. Mendez. "You can't make Trip do anything he doesn't want to do."

"I know." Charlie sounded so sad that Malcolm couldn't think of anything more to say.

* * *

Trip slid in and out of consciousness: he wanted to wake up, but something kept making him go back to sleep. Finally awareness and pain won out, and he found himself staring at a disturbingly familiar white light. His leg…

Memory returned, and he wanted to throw up. Someone rushed over and held a basin in front of him, but he pushed them away. There were more important things to worry about, things like, "James? Lizzie? Are they okay?"

"Are James and Lizzie your brother and sister?" A dark haired lady came to stand beside him, sounding concerned.

"Yeah." He closed his eyes again, but his mind fought against the clouds. He had to stay clear. Something wasn't right.

"Why are you worried about them, Charles?"

_Bingo_. Nobody called him Charles unless he was in trouble, or they were up to something. Even drugs couldn't stop him from recognising that.

"Because I got hurt. They were there, and I'm their brother." Best not to lie about things that could be checked.

"They're with your father, right now."

"Good. And Malcolm?" Malcolm had done this hospital thing before; he'd have to apologise for making him go through it again.

"Your friend is there too. Charles, do you know what happened?"

"I got sacked." Embarrassing, but true. "And my leg broke." It shouldn't have though… he'd been hit before and come out okay.

She sat down in a chair beside his bed, cozying up. "Do you know why your leg broke?"

"The shear force was too great for the material, and the shear-modulus proved greater than the elasticity." Let her swallow that one. He could do breakages in his sleep.

It took a moment for her to speak, clearly she hadn't been expecting anything technical. _Welcome to _my_ world. If you want to waltz around the truth, Lady, I can dance._ Sick still didn't make him stupid. She definitely was up to something because she sounded like Ms. Kelley on a mission from God. "Charles, we ran some tests, and those tests tell us that you haven't had enough to eat in a long time."

_Am I an idiot? No? Then why are you talking to me in small words?_ "Yeah, so? You gonna make me?" One thing: by pissing him off, she was bringing him out of the stupor.

This time she actually jumped. "Charles…"

"Bite me, Lady. For starters, I hate the name Charles, and for another, you shouldn't be asking me questions while I'm on drugs." They didn't let cops do that in the movies. It wasn't fair.

"Why don't you like to be called that?" She jumped on the admission like she'd landed the fish she'd been trolling for.

"Because I don't like it. My name is Trip. My friends call me Trip. My enemies call me Trip. My teachers call me Trip. Even my parents – who actually _named_ me Charles – call me Trip." Hell, _Jon_ had never called him Charles, even when Jon was being annoying. "Now what are you trying to find out, Lady?"

"That's Dr. Mendez. I'm trying to help you. If someone has been hurting you…"

Was _that_ it? "Jesus Christ, Lady. Nobody hurts me. Nobody even _tries_ to hurt me." Yeah, his mother probably _wasn't_ trying.

"I heard you were hurt at your camp, over the summer."

"Yeah, and I was also beating the crap out of the other guy at the time. Kinda mutual." _Anything else?_ "You ever hear of the term 'false allegations?'" You could get good dialogue from old movies. "Or maybe 'harassment?'"

"Charles…"

"Go to hell, Lady. Nobody makes me do anything I don't want to, okay? My parents don't beat me, and they don't starve me. You wanna bust them for something? Bust them for nagging me _to_ eat. And explain that one to the judge, I wanna see that." Stupid bitch, how the hell did she get a medical degree in the first place? "Now go get me a real doctor. I want to go home." He could tell by the look on her face that she was convinced. Was probably changing her mind about having kids of her own, too. _Two down, several billion to go_. Jon swore off fatherhood after five minutes with him, as well.

They still didn't want to let him go. They wanted to keep him for observation but stubbornness won the day. It was fun seeing Dr. Jennings, his regular doctor, tearing a strip off Dr. Mendez. It wasn't so much fun getting Dr. Jennings' lecture.

"Trip, despite Dr. Mendez being wrong about other things, she _is_ right about your bones. You're growing, right now, and you need to get proper nutrition. That does _not_ mean eating when you have time." Dr. Jennings knew Trip's habits too well, or at least his old ones. "It means eating at least three solid meals a day. It means getting enough nutrients – I'm putting you on some supplements, as well, to at least try to catch you up. And no more sports, either – even when that comes off." He tapped the heavy cast on Trip's leg. "And don't even _think_ of taking this off before I say you can."

"What if it itches?" A stupid question, but it wasn't like he needed to impress Dr. Jennings. Dr. Jennings already knew he was a jerk.

"These newer ones don't itch that much, Trip." Dr. Jennings just shook his head. "You've got our best model."

It was more than just a cast, too. He'd read about stabilizers like this – they were designed to pretty much do everything. There were sensors in here to monitor his wound – check for bleeding, measure pain levels, monitor any infections and take care of the problem, or alert proper authorities if needed. It was temperature regulated and waterproof – he could go swimming if he didn't mind drowning. Yet it maintained airflow over his leg, too. Later on, it could be programmed to stimulate the muscles and prevent atrophy. All in all, it was pretty cool. Theoretically, it also couldn't be removed without a doctor… but Dr. Jennings knew Trip when it came to things like that, too.

"I mean that, Trip. We don't need a repeat of the braces incident."

Trip tried to look innocent and failed. "That was an accident. And anyway, they hurt." He'd just misjudged when trying to take them out, and hashed his lips a little. "And it was two years ago. I don't do stuff like that anymore." Besides, he could use something like this. _Rag on me about homework now, Ms. Kelley_.

"Right." Dr. Jennings took out a pen and scribbled something on the outside of the cast. "Try to keep that in mind, so you don't end up back here."

Trip read it, and grinned. He liked Dr. Jennings. Dr. Jennings didn't treat him like a kid. And obviously Dr. Mendez had bitched about something, or he wouldn't be staring at shear equations on his brand new cast. "You mind writing me a note excusing me from physics class, too? I'd hate to walk in with this – I might confuse my teacher."

Dr. Jennings just bopped him on the head with his padd and walked out, laughing. Only when he was gone did Trip relax.

_Okay… at least I'm getting out of here._ As for the rest… _I gotta come up with something._


	5. Consequence

**Disclaimer**: I don't own _Enterprise_ or its characters, otherwise there'd be no need for fundraising efforts on the part of the fans. Unless they really _wanted_ to, since I also make no money off this.

**Author's note**: Yes, I'm finally back. Sorry it took so long, but my life has been insane lately. Work/school… bomb threats (WAT storyline for me? Hmm… maybe when my heart stops pounding and I can actually deal with it), yes… it's been a little interesting.

Hope the wait is worth it for those of you faithful enough to stick around… thank you so much, and many thanks to my wonderful betas – Kate98 (703296) silvershadowfire (569176) and gaianarchy (gaianarchy). Without you… things would be much worse.

**Chapter 4: Consequence**

Trip grumbled when he realised that he was essentially confined to the first floor. Charlie ignored him and began setting up a space in the den where Trip could sleep.

"I'll help out," Malcolm offered, keeping his voice low even as Charlie disappeared upstairs for blankets. "With your chores and such."

"Malcolm, when are you going to get it into your head that you're a guest? You're not supposed to work." Trip flopped down on the couch and shook his head.

"An indefinite guest," Malcolm countered. "And as such I should take on my share of the household duties." After all, that was just as polite as serving a short-term guest, wasn't it?

Trip glared, but said nothing. Clearly, he still hated losing arguments, but at least he knew to quit when he _was_ beaten.

Charlie came back with the blankets and some other things from Trip's room, including Trip's computer. He stood and waited at the foot of the couch until Trip sighed and stood up.

"I'm still supposed to be woozy, so could you hurry this up?" Trip did sound a little out of sorts. There was none of his usual sarcasm in his tone; instead, he seemed almost whiny.

_He's worried,_ Malcolm realised. Trip must have already figured out some of the ramifications of his injury. He wouldn't be able to take care of things as much now, even with Malcolm's help. _And he doesn't trust either of his parents_.

Charlie put together a makeshift bed and Trip crashed back down again, the springs protesting against the abuse. Malcolm could see Charlie biting back a comment. The destruction of the couch had nothing to do with the broken leg – Trip's method of sitting down usually involved simply letting his knees collapse and falling on the nearest piece of furniture. But Charlie looked like he was trying not to get on Trip's case about even the usual issues – the cost of a new couch far less than the cost of a son.

"I don't want you going anywhere," Charlie said instead. "I'm surprised they even let you come home from the hospital, but I do _not_ want you wearing yourself out. The world is not going to fall apart without you."

"Because you do such a wonderful job of keeping it together." Trip didn't even look up at this father as he spoke. "Seeing as you're here so much and all."

"Get used to seeing me." Charlie sat down on the coffee table, as though emphasising his permanence. "Because I am going to be here quite a bit. After all, I clearly can't trust you to look after my eldest son."

"And you can do such a better job."

Charlie smiled, but it wasn't a happy expression. "Watch me. In case you managed to forget, I am still your father."

"Don't worry. I even managed to remember that _she's_ still my mother." Trip pointed upwards. Obviously, he was still suffering effects from either the injury or the medication, because he seemed to have forgotten he was keeping secrets from Malcolm.

_But it doesn't matter, because I already know_. Malcolm wondered what Charlie would do now. From the sound of things, he wasn't going to be working _either_ job. And a lot of Trip's worries stemmed from the financial problems the family seemed to be having. That was the only way to explain why he wouldn't eat, and why he wore clothes too small for him, even while he made sure his siblings were well cared for.

"It's a problem, I know." Charlie said, softly. They both seemed to have forgotten that Malcolm was there.

_But that's okay, because otherwise they wouldn't do anything._ They'd still try to pretend that everything was fine, even when anybody could see that it wasn't.

"Really?" Trip raised his eyebrows in disbelief, and his tone was bitter. "Then why is it still a problem?"

Charlie looked like he wanted to cry. "You don't know enough about what you're talking about, Trip. I know you think you know everything…"

"I know a hell of a lot more than you!" Trip's volume increased. "I know she doesn't give a crap about anything anymore! Where the fuck was she, Dad? Huh? I coulda _died_, and she didn't give a crap!"

Malcolm winced. He felt his stomach tighten as though he was the one being yelled at, not Charlie. He felt helpless.

Then Trip started to sob, his entire body shaking. Charlie looked lost, like he didn't know what do.

_At least Jonathan did_. Malcolm wished he could call Jonathan and let him know what had happened. But he was probably already in enough trouble simply for sending the picture. _If Trip finds out about that…_ Trip had spent a lot of time trying to _impress_ Jonathan. More reminders of Trip's darker side probably weren't that impressive.

Then again, it probably wasn't a good thing to ignore. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe because everybody tried to pretend that everything was fine, that was how it got so bad. But Jonathan hadn't tried to pretend. Maybe that was why Trip respected Jonathan so much, even if he didn't always show it.

"Your Mom _does_ care, Trip and she does love you. She's just…" Charlie looked even more uncomfortable, fidgeting in his seat.

"Bullshit! She doesn't even know I'm alive. I coulda done this on the living room floor and I'd be lucky if she stepped over me instead of on me." Trip moved like he wanted to pull his knees up to his chest, but the cast wouldn't let him. He fell back completely instead, and rolled over to bury his face in the cushions.

"Trip…" Charlie gave up, getting up and leaving the room entirely. Malcolm shifted from foot to foot, wondering what _he_ should do next. Should he stay with Trip, or follow Charlie and try to explain things? If he did follow Charlie, how much would Trip hate him for that?

_Or there's the other option_. Yes, it might blow their cover completely, but right now that risk meant little against the possibility that Trip would do something stupid. Making up his mind, Malcolm left the room.

* * *

"Hey. Hey!" Jon felt somebody shaking him but decided to ignore it. Between class naps were sacred, surely everybody knew that. And it _couldn't_ be time to get up, because he'd just gotten to sleep. "There's a call for you, man. Some kid. Says it's urgent." 

_Kid_? Jon bolted up, throwing the blankets aside. That would be urgent. The monster could get melodramatic, but he never cried wolf. _No, he waits until it's past the point of emergency, and then just says 'oops.'_ He slid behind the monitor before his eyes even focussed, and when they did… "Malcolm?" Now that wasn't the 'kid' he'd expected. "What's up?"

"Um… Trip called me… he's pretty upset. I thought I'd better tell you, maybe you can help." Malcolm fidgeted, and there was something off in what he said. Just what, though, Jon couldn't say.

"Did he say why?" Never mind, it had to be serious. If Trip was asking _anyone_ for help, it was serious. _Don't tell me it's suicide, again. Please don't tell me that_. There'd been no indication in Trip's past letters that he'd slid back to that level of depression, but Trip was damn good at hiding things like that, too.

"He broke his leg… and there are complications."

Jon sighed. _Aren't there always?_ In Trip's case they could be anything from the minor (I broke my leg, but my parents still make me go to school) to the extreme (I broke my leg, and I'm now in jail, and – oh, yeah – the house burned down and the school blew up, and do you know the names of any good lawyers?) and Jon wasn't going to place bets where in the continuum this case landed. "Okay, thanks. I'll call him, and see what's up." He noted the relief on Malcolm's face when he didn't ask for more details. _Brat probably told you not to tell anyone, didn't he?_ Which meant it had to be closer to the lawyer end, or Malcolm wouldn't have broken the confidence. He opened his mouth to say more, but Malcolm signed off quickly. That wasn't much of a surprise, either. He hadn't heard from Malcolm in a while – apparently Stuart Reed didn't want his son corresponding with someone that much older. Trip's parents welcomed it, but they were just grateful to find someone that Trip _would_ actually correspond with who _wasn't_ into criminal activity.

He punched in Trip's number and waited. Just when he was about to give up, Trip answered. "Hello?"

"You look like crap." Might as well just jump right in. And it was true: Trip's eyes were red from crying, and it was bad enough that the rest of his face had puffed up, too. "I'd ask how you were doing…"

"Yeah, well…" Trip shrugged. "You?"

Jon shrugged back. "You know. Same shit, different day."

"Yeah, I know," Trip smiled a little – not a happy smile, but it was something – and scratched the side of his face. Even over the link, Jon could see the salt-burns on Trip's cheeks.

"I heard you had an accident." It seemed like an okay place to start.

Trip's face darkened. "How'd you hear that?"

"I haff my sources," Jon tried for a Transylvanian accent from a movie and failed miserably.

"Yeah, well… I broke my leg. No big deal."

"You mean someone's managed to get you slowed down?"

Trip gave him the finger.

"I'll tell you what: you can pass that message on to my girlfriend and let her deliver it."

"You mean you've actually found someone that desperate?" At least the kid's sarcasm was still intact.

"I don't think desperate is the word." Jon yawned theatrically. "I've been having trouble getting enough sleep."

"You mean I should talk to the hand?" No, Trip's sarcasm certainly hadn't been damaged.

"So what happened?" No sense digging himself in further – Trip's capacity for comebacks was sometimes unlimited.

Trip made a face. "I got sacked."

"That's funny, I don't usually find that breaks legs." Hey, the monster started this and this level of banter was often the only thing that would break down those battlements of his.

"Football, dickhead. Not like that preppy, wimpy little thing you play… fooling around with your balls in a pool." Trip gave as good as he got. "As for the other, you're obviously not as experienced as you like to pretend you are."

Jon shook his fingers like he'd been burned. "Ouch. Has anyone ever told you that you're too well informed for a thirteen-year-old?"

"I'm too well informed for a forty-year-old." Trip shot back, but it didn't seem like banter anymore. There was something else under the words, something darker and heavier.

_Welcome back to the minefield_. Trip often expressed his feelings rather clearly. Getting him to talk about them was another matter. _One misstep_… "Well, maybe if you stopped hanging out with virtual criminals…"

"Right. I'll stick with the real ones from now on." Trip's current feelings were broadcast right from his face. _What the hell are you up to?_ the expression said.

"Speaking of… nice picture. My roomie wants to turn it into wallpaper, but I told him 'over my dead body.' No way am I putting something _you_ made up on the wall… it's probably designed to spontaneously combust or open a portal to hell, or something like that."

"Actually, it's the hidden code for Universal Field Theory. _Deus-ex machina_ and all that shit."

"Latin," Jon grinned, only semi-impressed. "Let me guess, Malcolm came up with that one."

An odd look flashed over Trip's face, almost one of fear. Then it vanished. "Yeah. He's sure as hell got you beat for brains."

"Amen to that." Jon refused to take truth as an insult. _Malcolm is one smart kid_. The difference between Malcolm and Trip was that Malcolm's intelligence was the classical academic type while Trip was more 'mad genius' than anything. "Seriously, this girl taking religion saw it and wanted to call in an exorcist." Actually, her major was psych, and she suggested that the artist needed 'serious therapy,' but Jon wasn't going to tell Trip that. It would only close down the lines of communication he was struggling to keep open. _What's _really_ up, kiddo?_ No way even a hard hit should have broken the leg of a healthy thirteen year old – not that badly. _So, I'm guessing that you're not healthy_.

"So, what do you really want?" Trip crossed his arms and glared at the screen.

_So much for subtlety_. "What do you mean?"

"Give me a break, Jonny-boy. You didn't call me up just because I busted my leg. You think there's something wrong with my head."

"Jonny-boy? There _is_ something wrong with your head if you think you can get away with calling me that. It's only been a couple of months, kiddo. Nobody gets better that fast… not even you."

Trip's expression darkened and he pulled in on himself. "It's nothing. It's not your problem anymore."

"The hell it isn't. Now if you're having trouble, talk to me."

"You can't do anything. And… and it's nothing I can't handle. You worry about your own stuff – aren't you coming up on mid-terms?"

"You might be able to get away with playing parent to your brother and sister, but don't try it with me." It definitely _wasn't_ something Trip could handle, whatever it was. That much was clear in the way he kept deflecting Jon away and refusing to answer. "And I think there's a Chinese proverb or something, about how if you save someone's life you become responsible for them for the rest of it."

"I absolve you." Trip made the sign of the cross, even though Jon knew the kid wasn't Catholic. "You are no longer at fault for anything I do."

Trust the monster to see it in that light. "I'm sorry, but I don't remember you being ordained as a priest. And anyway… shouldn't that be my choice?"

"It's my life," Trip countered. "And I say I don't want you screwing around with it."

"Yeah, you'd rather it was someone like your uncle – putting you in the ground." It was a nasty shot, but Jon was losing patience.

"It's my _cousin_ in the funeral business, dickhead. And at least by then I'll be _dead_."

Jon gritted his teeth. "Did it ever occur to you that that is precisely what everyone is afraid of?"

"You shouldn't end your sentence in a preposition." If Trip was falling back on grammar, he was _definitely_ hiding something.

"Oh, and you should criticise my English."

"No, but Mal could. He's been teaching me."

"I'm surprised his Dad's letting him talk to you." Again, that flicker of fear crossed Trip's face and Jon couldn't help wondering why. Nothing had _seemed_ wrong with Malcolm. "He _does_ have his parents' permission, right?"

"Yeah, sure." The answer came so quick and pat that Jon knew it was a lie.

"Tucker…"

"I'm fine. He's fine."

"You are _not_ fine. I can _see_ that. Now tell me what it is." Dancing around the topic wasn't working, maybe the direct approach would.

"Drugs. They keep insisting I take them so I don't feel my leg so much," Trip shot back.

Jon just stared at the screen and waited.

"Fine. It was a bad break, okay? Everybody freaked out, and now I'm stuck on this stupid couch for the next six weeks or more."

"You know what?" Jon threw his hands in the air. "Don't tell me. You're right, I've got better things to worry about than some bratty kid who clearly doesn't give a crap."

"Wow, you are a fast learner." Any more sarcasm in Trip's voice and the sentence would implode. "No wonder you made it into Stanford."

Jon said nothing, just shook his head and signed off. Sighing, he punched in another number and waited.

"Hello?" Charlie looked as tired and worn out as his son had.

"Is everything okay over there? I just had a bit of an odd conversation with Trip… he broke his leg?"

Charlie sighed. "If it was just a break… is that what he told you?"

Jon nodded.

Charlie filled in the details, telling him about the surgery and how close Trip had come to dying. "He still won't face it. He's lucky to be alive and acting like that's something to be mad about."

Jon smiled wryly. "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

Charlie snorted. "You want him for a while?" Then his face darkened. "Maybe it would be better for him if he just wasn't here. As much as I hate to say it…"

_Uh oh._ That had been the Tuckers' excuse to send Trip to camp, too: a need to think of their son just being a kid. "Hey," Jon soothed. "He's probably still in shock. Give him some time to adjust. He'll be back to his cranky, impossible self before you know it."

"I hope so," Charlie sighed. "Otherwise…"

"You should talk to _my_ dad. He didn't think he'd survive my teenage years, either." Jon made a face. "At least you're not taking away his driver's license yet."

"He's not getting one – not while he's living here, at least." Charlie shuddered. "The idea of Trip with a car…"

"Knowing Trip, he'd spend more time modifying it than driving it." And probably not with the systems that got Jon in so much trouble either, though he decided not to scare Charlie with that fact. And even if Trip _did_ decide to create a racer, it would probably be a lot safer than what Jon cobbled together. That was one thing about Trip… if he did something, he made sure he did it _right_.

_And I would have been fine had that ditch decided not to jump out in front of me_. The fact that he'd forgotten a fundamental rule about oil and water didn't help either. Given the state of the car, yanking the license was merely symbolic. _On the other hand, it got me started on the camp thing_. Summer without a car seemed interminable, so when the chance to be a counsellor somewhere out of the country came up, he hadn't hesitated. _Three years later and the rest is history_… _thankfully_.

"That's what scares me," Charlie said darkly. "I don't want to wake up one morning to discover that I have a newly detached garage. The thought of Trip and a welder is not exactly comforting."

Jon smiled, but only in half-agreement. What Trip might come up with when given a welder would be scary, but the kid was more cautious with tools than most people tended to be. _He's like a chef with his knives. Don't touch if you value your fingers_. The biggest danger of giving Trip an entire workshop would be the possibility of never seeing him again. _I mean, I thought Dad was bad, but Trip's like Dad on a mission from God._ "So, other than the leg, how's he been doing?"

Charlie seemed to be weighing how much to tell Jon. Despite the Tucker parents' relief that Trip had chosen a semi-respectable role model, Jon still wasn't on the inside, yet. And Jon knew well enough that some secrets never made it outside of family. "His normal self. Stubborn as hell, in other words."

_So, no help here, either_. Whether Charlie just didn't know, or wouldn't tell, Jon couldn't guess. It could be either: Trip wasn't always forthcoming with his problems, even to his parents. _Especially_ to his parents, sometimes. Jon wondered if they still were in the dark as to the extent of Trip's depression. That would hardly be something to ask, though. _Are you aware that your son was suicidal?_ Not after keeping it secret this long.

"That's good to hear." Actually, it wasn't, and it didn't explain Malcolm's concern or Trip's fear every time Malcolm's name came up. _What's going on, kiddo?_ He spent a few more minutes with polite small talk, then said his goodbyes and signed off. He sat staring at the screen and thinking. The injury Charlie had described _really_ didn't fit with a thirteen-year-old kid, even one as adept at getting into trouble as Trip. Jon furrowed his brow. He needed more information on the subject, but luckily, he was in the right place to get something like that.

He got up and quickly checked in the mirror to make sure his hair wasn't sticking up all over the place.

"Where're you going now?" Gilbert blinked, trying to figure out the odd behaviour.

Jon smirked. "To find myself a med student." There were a couple out there he'd had his eye on and something like this gave him a way in. Especially since he had a free weekend right now. _No sense losing the opportunity_.

"Man… free clinic might be safer to your reputation," Gilbert grinned.

Jon gave him the finger and walked out, laughing.

* * *

_What the fuck are you trying to pull?_ Trip stared at the screen as Jon signed off. This wasn't just a 'how are you' call… and that reference to Malcolm? That had to be it: Malcolm must have called Jon first. _I told you he's got good intentions and bad judgement, Mom_. Trip could only pray that Malcolm used a public terminal and not one of the ones in the house. Jon was cool – to a point. He'd never support a major fraud like the one Trip and Malcolm were pulling; he still had that geeky fixation with obeying the rules. _Not to mention he's a nosy mother hen. _He _should_ become a social worker, because he seemed to have this compulsion to fix everybody's problems. _You can't. I'm not telling you, because there's nothing anybody can do about any of it_. 

Trip poked angrily at the sandwich his father had brought in for him, then gave the dish a shove and sent it flying off the coffee table. The _last_ thing he wanted was food. They couldn't make him eat it. He wasn't going to.

Charlie came running in at the sound of the crash and swore. "Trip…" He bent down and started picking up pieces of sandwich and broken plate. "You have to…"

"Make me." Let them try… he'd just throw it up again.

Charlie stopped what he was doing. "You know… I think your friend Jon is right. I don't think I'm going to have to worry about pulling your driver's licence, because I don't think you're going to be alive to get it." Tears shook his voice and he threw what he'd picked up on the floor before fleeing the room.

_Shit_. Trip's own tears returned and he fell back into the couch. Dad was right, he didn't deserve…

He pushed himself onto his feet, ignoring the stab of pain that lashed through his leg. He limped and stumbled his way towards the utility room and over to the high shelf that held the cleaning solutions safely out of James' and Elizabeth's reach. _But not out of mine_. He stood for a moment, debating which one would work quickest, which one he could actually get down.

"Trip?"

He jerked, startled. Elizabeth pulled on his sleeve, trying to get his attention. "Why is Daddy crying?"

_Ohmigod._ Bad enough that he'd messed up Dad, but the thought of Elizabeth being the one to find him after he'd… "He's just upset, sweetie. It was a bad day today." His hands started to shake and he found it hard to breathe. How could he have forgotten them? How could he have… He'd nearly… Air came in the form of quick shallow breaths as the room started to spin. Elizabeth screamed, the kind of high pitched alarm that only she could manage. He heard running footsteps, felt someone grab his shoulders, then nothing.

(t)

He woke to find himself back in the hospital, alone. He knew what was coming next… Dad would get him back on those drugs and turn him into a zombie again. _Just like the last time_. When Elizabeth had been sick, and he'd worried, and Dad had the doctors put him on… _No_. He got up and moved as quickly as he could to the door, only to find it locked. _No_. He glanced around, seeing the fine mesh that covered the windows of the room, designed to prevent breakage. _Psych ward_. Dad had finally done it, had him locked up and he'd never get out. He screamed and pounded against the door, knowing that it wouldn't do any good.

"Let me out of here!" He couldn't stay here. Mom was the one that belonged in a place like this. Mom was the one that was crazy-sick, not him. He needed to get out of here. James and Lizzie needed him. They weren't safe there alone. He had to save them. "Let me out of here, please!"

* * *

Charlie stood and watched his son twitch and moan his way through a sweat filled nightmare. He didn't want to do this, it felt like cutting out his own heart, but he didn't have a choice. _I have to get him out of here_. Fiona was right; he couldn't handle his son. Things were too far out of control. He couldn't… he'd never imagined that things had gone that far. Not his son, his bright, brilliant boy. Not the child that had a ready smile that instantly made you smile back and the enthusiasm to make you believe that anything was possible. Not the little fighter who defied all the doctor's predictions and made it through those first few days, then weeks and then months until they could bring him home – born three months premature, and with a hole in his heart to boot. 

_And so smart… so, so smart._ Trip had never just stacked blocks – from the beginning he'd been absorbed in making complicated structures, using other objects – books, sticks, rocks – when the blocks themselves wouldn't serve. And the puzzles: Trip had been two the first time he'd laid eyes on a jigsaw puzzle… and he'd never looked back since. People had thought Charlie was crazy, buying a five-hundred-piece puzzle as Christmas present for his three-year-old son, but Trip had been delighted. He'd spent hours carefully matching the pieces together, not caring what the picture was. When James came along, it was hard not to play favourites: James was nowhere near as bright as his older brother, hard as that was to admit.

But he couldn't stay in denial. He couldn't ignore the look on Trip's face as he'd stared at a shelf full of poisons. _How?_ How could such a happy child reach a point where he wanted to die? How could someone who fought so hard to stay alive make the decision to give up?

_I'm not going to lose you_. If sending Trip away would save his life, then Charlie was willing to do it. _I know you don't believe it, but I love you. You're my son._ He sighed. _Trip_. His son, his namesake, the third in a row. Fiona had hated the nickname at first, but Charlie felt he'd owed the boy something for saddling him with an identity that in retrospect could never fit. Charles the Second and Charles the First were so middle of the road; bland rough sketches with none of the mesmerising spark that lit Trip from within, none of the wild gifts with which this boy was so blessed. Trip was no Charles, or Charlie, or Chuck…

_I doubt I'll ever tell you the truth, though._ Charlie smiled, remembering the day he started it. 'The Third' was a convenient lie, a way to justify an odd decision. He'd brought his toddling son to the office – just a quick stop to grab some things – and the younger Charles had wandered off in that inevitable way he had of chasing his curiosity. By the time Charlie tracked him down, the boy had already discovered a new freeway model and had begun dismantling it, carefully examining each piece then neatly laying it beside the one before.

_"That yours?" One of the engineers came up behind Charlie and clapped him on the shoulder._

_Charlie didn't answer, just took the latest part from the hands of his child and tried to put it back, explaining that it wasn't nice to take apart other people's things. As with all other messages he didn't want to hear, the boy ignored what his father was saying, calmly continuing in his work. The engineer watched for a bit, then shook his head._

_"Man, that is something else. That kid is such a trip."_

It had just fit, so perfectly. Nobody had ever believed the stories Charlie had to tell, seeing them as the tall tales of an overly proud father. Taken in the abstract, Trip _couldn't_ be believed – you had to experience it for yourself.

_You mean so much to me._ Fiona was right: he hadn't been around; he hadn't been paying attention. He'd grown accustomed to the extraordinary gift he'd been given: this sweet, loving child who'd never shown one spark of jealousy towards his younger siblings. He hadn't wanted to believe that there could be anything the matter. _How could I do that to you?_ Even what he had seen, he hadn't wanted to admit was as bad as he now knew it was.

Slowly, he turned away and went to make a call.


	6. Open Warfare

**Disclaimer**: I don't own _Enterprise_ (or believe you me, there would be a different ending and possibly much later than now) or the characters. This is for entertainment only, no profit is realised from these works.

**Author's Note**: No, I haven't given up, nor do I intend to. Just because the execs at UPN and Paramount share braincells with the executive body of the NHL does not mean that my fun has to come to a racheting halt. Just as there is junior hockey, there is also fan-fiction.

Thank you to Kate98 and gaianarchy for the betas. Sorry this took so long, it's been a hell of a few months.

**Chapter 5: Open Warfare**

_What's going on?_ Trip stared down at the car in the driveway – despite what everyone said, he refused to remain confined to the first floor. Dad might have brought the computer down, but he left all the models upstairs. Since he wasn't going to school yet, he needed _something_ to curb the boredom and somewhere to hide from his mother and, increasingly, his father. Since he figured they'd look in his bedroom, he'd moved up into the attic where he now had the perfect view of a strange car pulling up. He felt his stomach tighten. Something was wrong. He knew it.

He unplugged his soldering gun and laid it in its cradle, then headed over to the stair release. He dropped the stairs, then headed down, using his hands and his good leg for support, half-crawling, half-sliding his way down. He raced as fast as he dared down the hallway, having abandoned the crutches downstairs as an annoyance. He stopped and listened, then crept forward again so he could peek into the entrance hall.

The door opened, and Malcolm walked in, all hunched up and looking scared. A tall, dark haired guy followed him; Trip looked from one face to the other and gritted his teeth. No question who the stranger was – he'd rendered that very same face only days before.

Mom and Dad came down the hall to meet them. Dad looked kinda sick, but Mom looked perfectly composed – she had to be more than half-wasted.

"Mister Reed?"

Malcolm's father inclined his head just slightly but said nothing.

"Thank you for coming. I'm sorry about this." To Trip's ear, his mother didn't sound sorry at all… she sounded pissed.

Malcolm's father turned his head just slightly towards Trip's father. "You said your son would be here?"

Dad sighed. "I'm pretty sure he hasn't gotten far." He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Trip has a pretty good sense for trouble, he's probably just hiding out until he thinks it's blown over."

"I see." Stuart Reed's face didn't change expression, but Trip could sense the extra chill in the tones.

_Shit, Mal, no wonder you ran away if _that's_ what you had to live with._ At least when Mom and Dad got mad, they yelled and then it was over. This guy sounded like someone who could make you feel like shit just by saying hello. Trip also sensed that Malcolm would get it if Trip didn't make an appearance.

"I'm not the one who goes hiding out." He stepped out into the open and glared at his father. "You know, you could have tried _asking_ where I was."

"You're supposed to stay down here." Dad's voice sounded dull, almost defeated.

_What the hell?_ If Dad was angry, Trip could understand, but this didn't make sense. _Why aren't you mad at me? You should be mad at me, since you've busted me… you're supposed to be mad at me… why aren't you mad at me?_ Something really big and bad had to be going on. Trip felt his palms start to sweat. Dad was right about one thing – he had a good sense of trouble, and this didn't feel like the cops. This had the sense of being much, much worse. Dad sounded like he did when Grandpa Charles died.

Trip's heart started to pound. _Did something happen to James? Lizzie?_ Was that it? He swallowed hard, trying to wash the acid out of his throat. He started slowly down the stairs, leaning heavily on the railing. Then he saw them. A large suitcase sat by the door, with a smaller bag beside it. Malcolm hadn't brought that much stuff, so… "What's going on?"

Malcolm's father looked him up and down. "Charles?"

"Trip." He found himself intimidated by those steel-grey eyes, but tried to hold his ground.

"I think not." If you smashed into Stuart's tone with a car, the car would come out the worse.

"What's going on?" Trip repeated. He stopped moving, fighting the urge to turn and run. For one thing, he couldn't run and for another Malcolm's father would get mad and Malcolm didn't need that. Also, the only way to run was up – which would be okay if he had two working legs because he could always use the fire-ladder out the attic window – that, and he'd never make it fast enough.

"What's going on is you're in big trouble, Mister." Mom crossed her arms and glared at him.

He ignored her, trying to establish eye-contact with Malcolm who cowered beside Stuart. But Malcolm wouldn't look at him, meaning it was worse than Trip first thought.

Stuart turned to Charlie. "His things are ready?"

_Things? What things?_ Trip's gaze flew once more to the suitcase. "Wha… what… what's going on? What… what do you mean _things_? What's going on here?" His voice rose in hysteria, cracking. They weren't… they couldn't be…

"Come here." Stuart didn't ask… he ordered.

Trip shook, then bolted, stumbling down the rest of the stairs and nearly falling. He pushed past his parents and into the living room before he stopped dead. His computer was gone. It wouldn't fit in the suitcase, and if he was supposed to be going somewhere…

He began to scream, an incoherent sound of rage. "You _bitch!_" It was her idea, he knew it.

"You obviously can't be trusted…" Fiona began, acid in her voice.

"You _BITCH!_" He screamed louder this time, turning around to face her. Some of the data on his hard drive was irreplaceable. Programs he'd spent months working on, gone. Probably in the garbage, that was something she'd do. Dad wouldn't go that far, but Mom would.

"That will be enough." Stuart stepped over and took hold of Trip's arm. "Your parents and I have discussed the matter. Since you and my son wish to spend so much time together, you will be allowed to do so; however, from now on you will have appropriate supervision."

Trip said nothing, his jaw too tense to allow any further speech. His fingers clenched into fists and it took all his concentration not to launch a punch into that smug, self-satisfied face. A single word kept looping in his mind. _Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch…_

Dad laid a hand on Trip's other arm, but Trip shook it off and smacked it away. He wasn't going to fall for that 'tears and sympathy' bullshit. He locked eyes with his mother. "This is the biggest mistake of your life. You are going to regret this. I _guarantee_ you, you are going to regret this."

"Trip…" Dad tried to step in again, but it was too late. He was part of this conspiracy; he could suffer right alongside her.

"You're going to regret this." He pointed at his father, warning. "I am never coming back here, you understand? _Never_."

_

* * *

_

_Oh, no._ Malcolm could see that his father didn't believe it, and neither did Fiona. They thought Trip was just bluffing… exaggerating. But he wasn't. Malcolm knew it, and from the look in Charlie's eyes, he knew it too. Trip meant it. The second he walked out that door, he was never going to return.

"Let's go." Stuart started to pull Trip towards the door, but Trip didn't need encouragement.

Malcolm picked up the suitcase before Trip could. Trip couldn't carry it and manage on his cast at the same time, and Father would expect it. Malcolm could see his father's patience breaking; Stuart hated outbursts and Trip's belligerence was testing him beyond his normal limits. Maybe Trip couldn't tell, being more used to yelling, but Stuart was very, very angry. Malcolm tried to stay calm, but he was scared.

In the car, Trip said nothing, but Malcolm could see that his friend was thinking hard about something. Stuart, too, remained silent, but at least that was normal.

At the shuttleport, Stuart began checking the luggage in and arranging the boarding passes. When his back was turned, Trip limped off.

"Return here…" Stuart spotted Trip, and glared.

"Yeah, right, like I can outrun you. Relax… I'm not going far." Trip ignored the glare and continued over to a bank of phones. Malcolm watched as Trip leaned against the wall and stripped off his shoe and sock.

_What is he…_ The answer became apparent as Trip covered up the camera on the phone, rendering the device blind. Only then did he enter a number and wait.

Someone must have answered, because Trip began to talk, growing agitated again as he did. Finally he ended the call and put his sock and shoe back on before returning to Malcolm. Tears streaked Trip's cheeks; instead of belligerent, he looked like he had some days back at camp: ready to die.

"Trip?"

"I turned them in, Mal…" Trip shook his head, the tears coming faster. "I called Social Services… I turned my baby brother and sister over to strangers. But I wasn't… I wasn't… I wasn't leaving them with her. They can make me go away… but I'm not leaving Lizzie and James in that hell."

Malcolm nodded. _So that's how you're getting even._ Fiona would probably be angry at Trip, but Charlie would be devastated. As for Trip… he seemed to have collapsed in on himself, resembling the dark half of the self-portrait he'd drawn. As the tears slowed, his eyes dulled, taking on the robotic aspect that had been in the picture.

"Trip…" Malcolm kept his voice low, not wanting his father to hear, but fortunately Stuart was too busy sorting out some details. "Are you going to be okay? We…"

Trip blinked slowly, once… twice. "No… No, I don't think I'm okay. I don't think I'll ever be okay. You should go now. It's better." Trip's voice sounded distant, like he wasn't talking to Malcolm at all, wasn't talking to anybody, really.

"Go? Trip, I can't go anywhere." Malcolm started to panic. Even when Trip had talked about suicide, he'd never been quite like this. "Father is taking us…"

"He's right. You should have other friends." Trip began staring at a baggage carrel, as though it had him hypnotised. His features became determined, like he had a plan and no one would stop him from carrying it out.

"Trip!" Malcolm grabbed his friend's arm and began shaking it. "I don't have other friends… you're the only person who'll _be_ friends with me. I…"

"I turned them in, Mal. They'll be looked after now, they don't need me." Trip blinked again, his words slow and still distracted. "What's left?"

"Me. If you're my friend, then I'm your friend…"

"You're in trouble because of _me_, Malcolm!" Trip suddenly returned to the present, seemingly formed entirely of fury. "If you had any brains at all, you'd be running in the other direction." His shouts drew the attention of everybody around them. "So you go with your Daddy, and you get away from me…"

"That's enough." Stuart's icy tones cut through the fire of Trip's rage. "I will not allow that sort of outburst, do you understand? Nor will you speak back to me in the manner that you seem to think is appropriate with your parents. As of this moment, you will speak respectfully to those around you. You will speak, you will not scream. You will not interrupt your elders, you will respond only when you are addressed."

Trip met Stuart's stare straight on, and Malcolm tried to suppress a shiver. Trip tended to become obsessive when dealing with people he didn't like and Father was on that list. The other thing Father didn't seem to understand was that you couldn't _demand_ respect from Trip. Things could get bad.

Trip didn't say another word for the rest of the trip and Malcolm worried even more. _It was like this at camp… before he started to like Jonathan_. This was worse, though. At least at camp it had seemed like part of a battle, but now it was more as though Trip was withdrawing into his own little world, and Malcolm already knew it wasn't a pleasant one.

(m)

At home, Malcolm showed Trip where the guestroom was, anticipating that they wouldn't be allowed to stay together. When Trip showed no interest in unpacking, Malcolm did it for him, knowing it would be better than provoking Stuart further. As he did, he tried to explain.

"Father isn't like your father, Trip. He really does expect you to listen to him, and he doesn't like it when you fight back."

Trip said nothing, just stood staring at a wall, as though in a trance. He only moved when Malcolm told him to and even then it was only as much as was necessary. When he finished, Malcolm tugged on Trip's sleeve.

"Come on… Father will be wanting to talk to us."

Trip followed Malcolm down the hall and Malcolm sensed that the cast wasn't the only thing slowing their progress. Outside the door to his father's office, Malcolm paused and responding to Malcolm, Trip did the same.

_I don't want to do this_. No matter what happened, it would be bad. Stuart and Trip were like chalk and cheese… no, more like sulphur and saltpetre, and words would serve as charcoal. Add the spark of emotion and… Sighing, he raised his hand and knocked.

"Enter."

Malcolm did as instructed and Trip followed, stopping when Malcolm did.

Stuart's eyes flicked to the cast on Trip's leg. "You may sit down."

Trip didn't move.

"You may…" Stuart repeated. The tone laid ice in the air.

Malcolm helped Trip to one of the chairs, wondering how much his friend even noticed. The only change in Trip from upstairs was a widening of the eyes and a little more stiffness in his frame.

"The acts that you two chose to engage in are reprehensible. Forgery, fraud, the unauthorised access of several databases… only the fact that you are underage is protecting you from prosecution. Are you aware of that?"

"Yes, Father." Malcolm knew better than to say more and Trip said even less, didn't even indicate that he'd heard.

"When I ask you a question, you will answer." Stuart's normally deadly glare seemed to go right past Trip rather than through him. "I said…"

Malcolm could see his father's anger building. He glanced over at Trip, wanting to beg him to stop antagonising Stuart and spotted movement. For a split-second there was relief, then he realised what Trip was doing. He scratched, no… _clawed_ at his wrists, scraping skin away with each movement, getting slowly down into the flesh. It was as though in the absence of tools, he'd decided to use his fingernails to slit the veins and was just working his way down to them.

_Could he actually do that?_ Could a person actually scratch away enough skin to commit suicide? How long would it take?

Stuart's eyes narrowed. "Malcolm, you may leave. We will continue to discuss this later."

"Yes, sir." Part of him wanted to scream out in defiance, to say 'No, I won't go!' but that part was too small to have a voice. Instead, he did as he was told, weighed down by the guilt of abandoning his friend.

He couldn't even make himself listen outside the door. Father expected him to go to his room and stay there, so he did. He hoped Father would realise that there was something _wrong_ with Trip, that it wasn't simple defiance and bad manners. _He may be American, Father, but…_

In his room, he sat down and opened his journal. The school must have given it to Father with the rest of his things when they finally realised he was missing. He hadn't taken it with him because he had almost hoped he would have a new life. But now he knew that wasn't possible. He'd escaped briefly, but the enemy recaptured him and there would be even more security.

A sudden thought occurred to him. Why _was_ Trip here? Hadn't Father said something about not wanting Malcolm to have anything to do with Trip? Why, then, would he agree to take him in?

_Today,_ he wrote_, some strange things happened. Father discovered I defied him, possibly even discovered that I committed several crimes, but so far all that has happened is that I have been returned home and confined to my room. It seems like such a loss, to find myself back where I started… or in similar circumstances at least. I believe, quite possibly, that the only reason I have not been hung, drawn and quartered is the presence of Trip, though I cannot figure out why he's here._

_I am concerned about him. I think he might be broken …_he paused, thinking,_ and more than just his leg._

_I am concerned about myself as well. Am I really that much of a common criminal? _Another though occurred to him._ Then again, if I hadn't gone, perhaps Trip might have died. Maybe it was better that I did go. I wish I could ask questions… but there's no one I can ask._

_I hope Trip gets better soon._

Malcolm sighed. Why did it have to be Father who found them? Why couldn't it have been Jonathan who came because Trip was hurting? Jonathan knew how to talk to Trip. Trip _listened_ to Jonathan. Then maybe Trip wouldn't have had to leave his brother and sister, and then maybe he wouldn't be so upset.

He heard a tap on the door. Sighing, he stood up and walked over, opening it to reveal his sister.

"Madeline." He stepped aside to let her come in, wondering what she could possibly want to talk to him about.

"You're in trouble, Malcolm." She walked in and turned to stare at him as he closed the door. "Father is very, very angry with you. Who's that other boy? What's wrong with him? Why is he so skinny?"

"That's my friend Trip." He decided not to answer the second question, not fully. "He broke his leg, that's why he has to wear the cast."

"Oh." Madeline was silent for a moment. "Mother isn't happy, either. She said you made her lie to all her friends. She said everyone will laugh at her, because you're bad."

Malcolm snorted. "Well, Mother should get a grip. I'm not as bad as she wants to pretend I am."

Madeline's eyes widened. "You shouldn't say things like that, Malcolm. That's why you're in trouble. Father says that you're a disgrace to the family."

Malcolm's mind flashed to Fiona. "They don't know what a 'disgrace to the family' is. If I ran away, it's because of how they treat me." He sat down on the bed more like Trip tended to, causing the springs to protest. "How long before anybody even figured out I ran away? Half the time I don't think Father even knows who I am. I could pay someone else to stand and listen to his lectures and he'd never know the difference."

"You're going to get in trouble, saying things like that."

"I thought I was already in trouble," Malcolm muttered. Then he realised who he sounded like. _Oh, well_. "In for a penny, in for a pound."

"When that man called, Father even yelled afterwards. He said you were the most irresponsible person. Then he said," Madeline furrowed her brow, thinking. "He said that when he says someone is a bad influence, he means it."

"Father just doesn't want me to have friends," Malcolm said softly. Of course, he didn't. Malcolm was going to be a Naval officer one day, and officers couldn't afford close friends. Most people didn't stay close when one traveled so much, and it was too difficult to balance command decisions and friendship. That's what Father said, anyway. Malcolm wasn't so certain Father knew everything anymore. Then Malcolm blinked. "What man?"

Madeline shrugged. "He sounded funny. After he talked to Father, Father was _very_ upset."

Was that how Father found him? Did Mr. Tucker somehow track him down? Was _that_ why Trip was here? Malcolm would have thought that Fiona would have turned them in. Charlie had seemed upset with Trip leaving. But Madeline definitely said 'man' and Madeline didn't make mistakes with her eavesdropping. He doubted it was Jonathan, because he didn't think Jonathan could convince Father to take in Trip. _If it _was_ Mr. Tucker… did he tell you anything about Trip? Did he tell you what happened?_

"Madeline," Malcolm looked at his sister, his face serious. "Can you go listen to what Father is talking about right now?"

"I'm not supposed to eavesdrop, Malcolm." Madeline narrowed her eyes and glared at him. "You want to get me into trouble too."

Malcolm smiled, dangerously. "If you _don't_ do it, _I'll_ tell Father that you eavesdropped before. _And_ I'll tell him who wrecked his _lycaena arota_." Father had been livid when he found the delicate wings of his only Tailed Copper Butterfly broken and shredded. Madeline had been trying to get a better look when she dropped the case and Malcolm had lied, saying she had been with him and that they didn't know what had happened.

"You're mean, Malcolm." Madeline made a face and stormed off, hopefully to do what he asked.

_Elizabeth wouldn't have said that._ Trip's sister would have gladly done anything for her brother; he didn't have to blackmail her.

Adults were the problem, Malcolm decided. The world would be much better if adults gave it over to children. He folded his hands in his lap and waited.

* * *

_I don't care what you say, I don't care what you do. I don't want to be here, I don't care. I'm more trouble than I'm worth, so why are you even bothering?_ Trip scratched at his arms trying to drive away the itch. He was dead, because this had to be Hell.

"I have spoken extensively with your parents and with your father in particular. I will be blunt. The attitude you take with them is unacceptable. While you are in my household, you will treat others with respect. Is that clear?"

Trip said nothing.

"Young man, I have been granted custody. That includes, if necessary, the authority to call a physician. Your parents may be unwilling to have you forcibly committed, but I am not."

"Go ahead." Trip's voice was soft – he barely even heard it himself. "I don't care." He closed his eyes, turning his head away.

"You…"

"You haven't got a fucking clue." Trip wasn't sure who he was talking to. Or if he was even talking anymore.

"I will not countenance that sort of language…"

"No, you wouldn't." Even with his eyes closed, he could sense them. Watching from their glass cages on the walls, those compound eyes catching every movement, waiting for him to die so they could feast on his flesh. _Bugs_. Hundreds of them. Stuart Reed, Lord of the Flies, and the beetles and the crickets and the spiders. Hell wasn't fire, Trip _wanted_ fire. Hot, raging fire to clear this place out, get rid of the monsters, ashes to ashes. He shuddered, unable to escape the feeling that they were already on him, crawling, burrowing, chewing.

"Look at me when you speak." No fire in Stuart's voice, only ice.

Trip shook his head and tried to pull deeper into his clothing, put some armour between him and… _them_. He didn't dare open his eyes, if he opened his eyes he'd see not a man on the other side of that desk but a giant bug, staring at him and drooling. Just like Jeff Goldblum in that movie… the one horror movie Trip vowed never to watch. _The Fly_. Not any of them… the '58, the '86 or the 2006. How could Malcolm stand it? How could he sit here in this room whenever his father wanted to lecture, how could he sit here with all those eyes, watching? No wonder he could be so brave. If he could stand this, what could really scare him?

He wanted to throw up, but he couldn't. He had nothing on his stomach _to_ throw up. He could feel his heart pounding but at the same time he didn't dare breathe – they'd crawl in through his nose and into his lungs, eat him up from the inside. He wanted to run away, but the bugs had him pinned.

Stuart said something else, but the words were lost, too far away and in a foreign insect hiss. Then finally Trip's unsaid prayer was answered and there was nothing.

(t)

He woke to clean, crisp sheets and another set of staring eyes. _These_ looked kind of familiar though. The hair might have been a bit darker and the lines of the face sharper, but the eyes could only belong to one species: the little sister.

"Hey." Adults he could scream at, swear at, mess with. Adults could take care of themselves. Kids were different. He would never hurt a kid.

She said nothing, just kept staring.

"Are you Maddy?" She had to be, unless the Reeds let random little girls wander around the place.

She pursed her lips in a frown, but still didn't say anything. Then she wrinkled her nose, turning and running from the room.

_Okay, one of those things_. Little sisters did weird things sometimes; you just got used to it. Stuart obviously hadn't followed through on his threat, because this certainly wasn't a hospital.

_Liar._ Stuart liked to pretend he was the great disciplinarian, but he was worse than a college student. At least _Jon_ actually followed through on his bluffs.

_Jon_. Trip bolted upright. He'd been so caught up in the drama that he forgot to check something important, vital even. _Did anybody…_ Somebody had changed his clothes… did they go through his pockets, too? Did they… He scanned the room frantically, but couldn't find any trace of the clothing he'd been wearing. _Uh, oh… please, God, please don't let him find them._

* * *

Madeline reported back to her brother. "He's awake now."

Malcolm sighed. "Thank you." When she first told him that Trip had passed out, he'd panicked, before remembering that Trip was afraid of insects. Father's study must have been horrifying. "Did he say anything?"

"He sounds funny." Madeline confirmed. "Like that man."

So it definitely had been Mr. Tucker who called and not Jonathan. There was no way Madeline would confuse a Southern American accent with a Northern one.

Madeline seemed to remember something else. "Father talked to him again."

"That man?" Sometimes Madeline could be frustratingly vague about who 'him' might refer to. Sometimes Madeline could be frustrating vague about a lot of things. She was very much like Mother that way.

She nodded. "Father looked even more angry."

_Oh dear._ That meant Father would be coming to talk to Malcolm very soon. "Did you give them to him? To Trip?"

Madeline blinked, confused. Then her expression cleared. "Those things. No."

Malcolm rolled his eyes. "Maddy… I told you to give them to him." Sneaking down to the laundry was a dangerous move, but if Father found… _those…_ he wouldn't be angry, he'd be furious. He turned his sister around and gave her a gentle shove. "Go. Give them to him."

"You're mean, Malcolm." Madeline started to pout.

"I can be meaner," Malcolm warned. "I've learned how." He didn't dare take them back himself… if Father caught him anywhere near Trip's room, Hell would be the easy price to pay.

Madeline barely disappeared before Father arrived.

"Malcolm." Father's voice was stern.

"Yes?" Malcolm tried to keep the quaver from his voice. Father looked very, _very_ upset.

"A doctor is coming for your friend. I don't suppose you would have any enlightenment as to his behaviour."

_Yes, Father. He passed out on purpose, just to bother you._ Father seemed to think that fear was a matter of choice. "I believe he's phobic of insects, Father. Perhaps he found your study overwhelming."

Stuart's eyes glittered. "Are you certain that is all?"

"All I can think of, yes." Was it his imagination, or did Father seem rather pleased? He might be at that… he was rather proud of his collection.

"You should be aware that I have yet to decide your punishment. However, the consequences will be severe, I assure you."

"Yes, Father." This time Malcolm didn't even try to modify his tone. Meek probably was the best thing to go for.

"You _will_ be cognizant of the fact that your actions were not only disgraceful, they were criminal. Your friend might have the excuse of ignorance, but you do not."

"No, Father." That small, rebellious part once again wanted to scream, wanted to say that Trip was far from ignorant, and once again it was outvoted.

"In the meantime, you are confined to your room. Any and all privileges are suspended immediately."

"Yes, Father." He knew he was supposed to say 'thank you' as well, but he couldn't. No matter what Stuart thought, he was _not_ being generous, he was simply doing as he could be expected.

His father left, and Malcolm sighed. Hopefully this time Madeline would remember what she was doing, because if Father was in one of those moods, Trip needed all the confidence he could get.

* * *

The little sister returned and resumed staring. Trip stared back for a moment, then gave up. No one could stare like little sisters.

"Can I help you?"

"Mally said to give you these." Madeline stuck her hand out and dropped something on the bed.

Trip scooped them up, ignoring the pain as the small metal rods bit into his palm. "Thank you. _Thank you._" He wasn't sure who he was thanking – God, Madeline or Malcolm – but his picks were safe. Stuart hadn't found them, they weren't on their way to disposal or worse.

"Father says you're a bad person." Like Elizabeth, Madeline seemed to have no trouble speaking her mind. The thought of his own sister sent a knife ripping into his soul. Was she okay? Did she hate him?

"Sometimes I think so," Trip agreed.

"He was mad when you fainted. He said a bad word."

"Really." Trip tried to imagine the ultra-correct Stuart actually swearing. It must have qualified as an occasion. _Less than a day. I'm still good._ Before he could say more, she turned and left again.

A couple of minutes later, Stuart entered, trailed by another man.

_What am I, Exhibit A? The Bearded Fat Lady at the circus? Or maybe none of you noticed that I was sick._ Burying the picks beneath the blanket, he focussed his eyes on a spot on the ceiling, hoping they'd get the hint and go away. No such luck.

The stranger came over and sat down on the side of the bed. "I'm Dr. Robinson… you are Charles, I believe?"

Trip didn't bother answering. _I'll answer to 'Charles' at my funeral_. At the same time, he knew that identifying himself as 'Trip' would send Stuart into another round of the snippies. As tempting as it was, it was the weaker move. _Sometimes you have to sacrifice an immediate battle to win the entire game_. Mr. Shigai kept reminding him of that fact in almost every game they played. _Sometimes an opening is a trap._ He wondered if Mom and Dad had bothered to pack his Go set, or if they even realised what it was. _Probably not_. Not that it mattered, because he wouldn't have anyone to play against, here.

Dr. Robinson took silence as assent and began shining a bright light in Trip's eyes. It was all Trip's brain needed.

He gasped and turned his head away. He swallowed hard, trying not to throw up what wasn't there. What kind of a doctor was this, anyway, that he used old-fashioned torture devices to treat a patient? Next thing you knew, he'd be hauling out leeches. "Leave me alone."

"I know this isn't comfortable…" Dr. Robinson began.

"Go away." Trip struck out, connecting with something that felt like flesh.

"That is…" Stuart fell silent, maybe because the doctor told him to, but Trip didn't care.

_Just everybody stay shut up._ Were these guys morons or what? Even _Mom_ would have the sense to go away and leave him alone.

He heard a couple of clicks then felt something press against his neck. He winced slightly as the hypospray hissed, sending the ultra-fine mist of whatever it was through his skin and into his bloodstream.

The pain eased, bringing with it an overwhelming sense of exhaustion. Robinson might have been a lousy doctor, but he had good drugs. Praying he'd wake up in the same place, Trip slipped into oblivion.

* * *

Malcolm woke up before his alarm could ring; he'd been unable to properly fall asleep anyway. If Father hadn't been happy to discover Trip's aversion to insects, then he was disappointed, to say the least, to learn about the migraines. He seemed to think it was Malcolm's fault for not warning him that Trip was even more defective than advertised.

_Like me_. That was one thing he truly envied about Trip's life, as rotten as parts of it were. No matter what Trip did, his parents weren't ashamed of him. Angry with him at times, or frustrated… but they never seemed to wish they had a different child, one that wasn't so weak both in mind and body. _But Father does_. At least Malcolm had the reassurance now of knowing he wasn't the only one, that maybe he was closer to normal than he'd been told.

_I'm not the failure… Father is_. He took some comfort in that thought. After all, according to the Tuckers, he, Malcolm, was a wonderful child. They weren't the only ones: the teachers had been impressed, too.

_Maybe dealing with Trip will teach Father that I'm not so bad._ It was a mean little thought, but he had it anyway. After all, all Malcolm had against him was that he was a little bit small and tended towards morose. Which wasn't so bad when pitted against a temper that could blow the tops off mountains and enough stubbornness for an entire herd of mules.

_On the other hand, at least Trip has a little sister whose head wouldn't be mistaken for a feather pillow_. He hoped Madeline remembered the second time to actually give the picks to Trip. He hoped Father didn't catch her, or worse yet, she _tell_ Father what she was doing. _And to think they're less disappointed in you than they are in me_.

He sighed and got dressed. One thing was certain: there'd be no chocolate sour-cream pancakes for this breakfast. He'd never really thought about food before ending up at the Tuckers'… food was just something you ate to keep going. You cleaned your plate and you didn't ask for seconds. Then suddenly he found himself being asked what he _wanted_ and finding out that there were breakfast foods beyond oatmeal.

He went downstairs and waited at the table, silently. Madeline joined him and he could hear Mother in the kitchen. Father wasn't here and neither…

Father entered, holding Trip by the collar. Trip looked like he'd just been pulled out of bed, and by Father's expression, he probably had. Father dropped Trip into a chair then took his own place at the head of the table.

Mother brought in the breakfast and as Malcolm had suspected it consisted of her famous lumpy oatmeal. Suppressing a sigh, he reached for his spoon and the milk.

Trip didn't move. He dropped his gaze quickly to the bowl, then stared past it as though it couldn't possibly exist.

Father didn't seem to notice that Trip wasn't eating and Malcolm decided not to draw any attention to the fact. _It's not like he'd let you have something different if you don't like it_. The only thing that would happen would be Father getting indigestion.

After five minutes, Stuart spoke. "Young man, eat your breakfast."

Trip looked like he was going to say something, then he looked at Mother and stayed silent.

Mother and Madeline quickly finished their own breakfast then Mother hurriedly took Madeline away, ostensibly to get her ready for school.

"You will…"

"Manners forbade me from commenting earlier." Trip looked over at Stuart, eyes glittering angrily. "My parents taught me a long time ago that I wasn't supposed to eat paste."

_Oh, no._ Malcolm groaned inwardly._ You just didn't want to hurt Mother's feelings because she cooked it._ That had to be what Trip meant by manners. On the other hand, since Trip and Father had already declared an open war, it seemed that Trip was quite willing to speak his mind now that she was gone.

"There is nothing wrong with that. Now eat it." Father's glare could have burned holes through granite.

"There are more things wrong with this than I can count." Trip's gaze didn't waver.

"It's perfectly good…"

"…drywall spackle." Trip finished. "You can probably even sand it when it dries."

_Oh, no_. Were it not for the tone, Trip's words could have been taken as a joke. As it stood they served as accelerant on a smouldering anger.

"You will eat what you are given." Father wasn't used to disobedience, didn't like it at all. Malcolm watched his fingers tighten around his spoon.

"Fine, and should I expect a chaser of drain cleaner?" Clearly, Trip had decided not to listen to Father's edict on respect. Then again, he wouldn't. Trip didn't respect people who tried to push him around. He thought it was bullying, and Trip had a blind-spot in thinking that all bullies were weak. Jonesy had nearly _killed_ him, and Trip still persisted in seeing Jonesy as a wimp.

"Malcolm!" Father snapped. "Return to your room. You are confined there until further notice."

"Yes, Father." He wondered what he'd done to draw attention.

"What the hell is _that_ for? He didn't do anything." Trip sounded shocked and confused, more hurt than angry.

"You are his guest. He is responsible for your behaviour." Father's tone implied that such a thing should be obvious.

"Like hell." Trip shook his head violently. "_He_ didn't make me come here… hell, if it was _his_ choice, neither one of us would be here, because Malcolm's smarter than that. And _nobody's_ responsible for my behaviour. What I do, I do. He's got nothing to do with it."

"He chose, over my better judgement, to remain acquainted with you. As such, he has chosen to accept the consequences of that friendship."

_That's right, Father… your judgement_. Malcolm didn't say it aloud, though. He didn't dare.

"Hell, I got the impression you were an asshole." Trip's voice dropped, became nastier. "You didn't even check on Mal when he nearly got _killed_. But I never _imagined_ you were as big a bastard as this." He began to eat, slowly. "You know, in America we have this thing called _justice_. It means you don't have to be punished for someone else's crime."

"Malcolm." Father seemed to notice that he hadn't left yet.

"Yes, sir." He knew better than to argue or to even try to defend Trip. Especially since Trip was actually _eating_. Reluctantly, maybe, but steadily. If Malcolm had to stay in his room for that to happen, he was more than willing. After all, they hadn't even known each other a whole year and Trip had already risked his life twice to save Malcolm's. If having Father mad at him would save Trip's life… _It's still hardly a fair trade_. He just hoped that in the process of staying alive, Trip didn't get himself killed.


	7. Strategy and Manoeuvres

**Disclaimer:** I own neither _Enterprise_ nor its characters. This is for entertainment purposes only; I make no money from these works.

**Author's Note:** Sorry, so sorry about the delays. My life has been somewhat insane lately. My apologies. Thank you to everyone who has the patience to stay with me (and occasionally kick my butt, thank you sita-z).

**Credits:** Credits to my betas, gaianarchy, silvershadowfire and kate98, who make this make sense.

* * *

Chapter 6: Strategy and Manoeuvres

_Stupid, goddamned, ugly bastard._ Trip cracked his knuckles, one by one. Now he knew why Malcolm ran away, why he hadn't wanted his parents to visit at camp. Stuart Reed was a shithead son-of-a-bitch, and the past three weeks had given Trip a showcase. Mary… well, she might as well not even be on the same plane of existence, though it was easy to see where Madeline got the ditz gene. But Stuart… asshole wouldn't play fair. Every time Trip screwed up, _Malcolm _got in trouble. And the _rules_. 'Do this, do that… don't do that. Eat this…' Trip snorted. Mary's idea of 'food' wasn't fit for animal, let alone human consumption. She'd tried making pancakes one morning – after conspiratorially asking if there was anything Trip wanted to eat, making sure Stuart was out of earshot when she did so. _If_ you could call round discs of recycled cardboard 'pancakes.' No wonder Malcolm had been so grateful when he'd discovered real food. He'd probably never even known it existed.

Hopefully there'd be better luck on the clothes front, but somehow Trip doubted it. Most of Trip's things weren't 'fit for public display' according to Stuart, then again, neither was Trip. That was why Mary, Madeline and Malcolm were all out shopping and Trip was still confined to the house. Oh, the _excuse_ was that he'd get tired walking around all day with the cast, but the truth was simply that they didn't trust him outside these four walls.

He wandered, poking into cupboards, wary of the possibility of a bug-cache. He avoided Stuart's den… he wouldn't go in there at gunpoint. Which sucked, because it seemed like the only computer in the house was in there, unless Trip wanted to scrounge the circuits out of the fridge and build his own. Still…

He opened one of the living-room cabinets and stopped dead. It wasn't… it couldn't be, not in a place like this. He reached out to touch it, the surface cool beneath his fingers. It was… beautiful.

"What are you doing, young man?"

Trip jumped, jerking his fingers away from the carved wood. "Nothing."

"That is a very valuable piece." Stuart stepped up beside him. "It's part of an extremely complicated strategy game. I would prefer you didn't damage it."

Trip's eyes narrowed. "Really."

"Yes, now…" Clearly, Stuart didn't think Trip was capable of grasping the concepts of a game requiring thought. Trip knew he should stay quiet, but there was _no_ way this asshole was going to get away with that.

"Rack 'em up." He smiled slightly at the look of shock on Stuart's face. "I'll even let you put down half a dozen stones before we start."

* * *

"Odd." Mother put down her parcels and looked around. "I expected your father to be here. Go see if you can find him, would you, Malcolm?"

"Yes, Mother." He did as he was told, though Father was the _last_ person he wanted to find. He'd probably get in trouble for some other sin Father perceived Trip as having committed. It wasn't Trip's fault that he didn't know all the rules, or that he'd been taught to think, and question the validity of those rules. It was built into the American psyche, Malcolm had learned, going all the way back to the Rebellion. After all, the whole thing started over a Tax Law…

He checked Father's study first. Nothing. Curious, Malcolm went and checked Trip's room. Trip wasn't there and Malcolm's stomach clenched. That _really_ wasn't good. For a moment, he allowed his imagination to become overactive, picturing Father digging a hole in the backyard – a _big_ hole. Room enough for two bodies, really, and deep enough to remain relatively undetected.

_Get ahold of yourself._ He'd just have to keep searching. Father wouldn't have snapped this quickly, even under the influence of Charles Tucker III. Their twin disappearances could be totally unrelated.

_Or not._ He walked into the living room and stopped dead. Trip and Father were seated on the floor on either side of the coffee table, each one totally focussed on the intricately carved wooden block that Father had said never to touch.

_So _that's_ Go._ Father hadn't said, and Trip hadn't gotten a chance to teach Malcolm how to play. It _looked_ fairly simple, just a matter of placing stones on a board, one person playing white and the other black. Then again, once you knew the moves, chess looked simple too, and Trip said Go took more strategy than chess.

Malcolm reported back to his Mother. "They're in the living room. Playing Go. Father and Trip."

"Oh good." Mother looked pleased. "He hasn't had a partner since Admiral St. James moved to India. They tried playing by post for a while, but your Father claims that it's simply not the same."

_Mother, are you insane?_ What Malcolm had seen was not a friendly game where they'd retire for drinks and conversation afterwards; what he'd seen was out and out warfare. They'd been so focussed on the board and each other that they hadn't noticed him come in. He'd _seen_ the tension hanging between them. This wasn't a truce, it was moving up to the next level of military readiness, the one that came just before a thermonuclear strike. Unfortunately, there was no other way to describe it: Mother was a twit.

Madeline came over to stand beside Malcolm, looking back at Mother who kept putting away groceries with no worries at all. "It's a bad thing, isn't it?"

Malcolm nodded. "I think it means things are going to get worse."

* * *

Trip placed a stone on the board and then looked up at Stuart. _Game over._ Stuart hadn't taken the six-stone lead, because as much of an insult as it was to offer, _accepting_ would have meant admitting his weakness, and to a mere child. _A mere child trained by champions_. He'd only found that out recently, but Mr. Hu and Mr. Shegai had both won high-level tournaments. They'd learned all the tricks and the traps and Trip learned them the hard way by losing. In comparison, Stuart could have _used_ a six stone advantage. The man knew the rules and was a semi-decent strategist, but semi-decent wasn't enough. He played a straightforward, transparent game based on established patterns of play. It was like… like playing Little League all your life, then trying to beat a team of semi-pros. Not all the way up in the majors – Trip wasn't that good yet – but a decent set of minor leaguers. You might get lucky, but you couldn't count on luck to win games.

Stuart gave him a look of pure hatred, masked behind a veneer of controlled civility. "Well played, young man."

"Yeah." He wasn't going to return the compliment because he didn't see a reason to lie.

"I suggest you go get cleaned up. Supper will be served soon."

Trip began clearing the board, sorting stones into their respective cups. He hoped Malcolm wasn't going to get into trouble for this. After all, what did Stuart expect him to do? Throw the game? Play stupid? Maybe when they held the Winter Olympics on Mercury using natural snow, or Vulcans became known for their abilities as stand-up comedians. _Stiff upper lip, there, Stuart. Lose gracefully._ After all, you only learned through losing. That's what the masters said.

Dinner ended up being consumed in silence; even Mary gave up after a few efforts to start a conversation about how good it was that Trip and Stuart had found something in common. Trip didn't even try to suppress the feelings of satisfaction that came up every time he glanced over at Stuart's thundering expression.

"The boys will be going to school tomorrow." The announcement came suddenly, as Mary set bowls of tapioca pudding out for dessert. Trip thought he saw a bit of triumph lurking in Stuart's eyes, as though the man thought he'd made the perfect move, blocking all others. "I assume you have a uniform for Charles?"

"Yes," Mary smiled. "I can't be positive on the fit, but it should conform to his measurements." She patted Trip on the head and Trip tried not to gag. "He's getting so big, so fast."

_Yeah, well cement will do that to ya._ From what Malcolm said, food wasn't likely to get better at school, but he failed to see how it could get any worse. And he wasn't getting big, he was getting _fat_. His shape was more that of a middle-linebacker than quarterback. Problem was, even crunches were impossible in this cast. He'd _never_ been fat, not in his whole life. He was starting to look like Michael Leiuzinger who everybody made pig noises at and got shoved around a lot, until at the ripe old age of twelve he'd had a heart-attack. Coach would fall over laughing if he saw Trip like this. At least at school he might have a chance to get hold of some weights, get back into shape. After all, Dr. Jennings had said 'no sports' not 'no exercise'.

Still, the thought of a uniform grated. Uniforms in school… it was just _wrong_. Especially when the designers seemed to go for maximum discomfort. He knew… he'd lasted in private school for an entire week before they kicked him out. Mom and Dad – he tried not to choke when he thought about them – they'd thought he'd be better in an environment that could cater to his intelligence. The school had sent a polite letter home refunding Trip's tuition and hinting that the Tuckers might be allowing familial pride to influence their view of 'smart.' In celebration, he'd set fire to his uniform and got in trouble for playing with matches.

Besides, private school kids were geeks. Everybody knew that. _Sure_ the schools claimed that their students did better in all the academic competitions, but private schools could afford to take just geeks and sheep. Trip wasn't going to be a sheep – he wouldn't follow orders from _anybody_.

_But thanks to Mr. Asshole over there, I don't have a choice._ He didn't even dare lodge a protest. Malcolm had been through enough lately. Anyway, school had its advantages, like a higher student-to-adult ratio. A couple more weeks to heal up, lull everybody into a false sense of security. He didn't look up, didn't give Stuart anything to grab on to.

_You're forgetting, Mr. Reed. You're not the strategist you seem to think you are._

_

* * *

_

Malcolm closed his eyes and tried to pretend this wasn't happening. He _wasn't_ going back to school, Father _wasn't_ inflicting the British Public Schools system on Trip. Not when Trip was crippled – didn't Father know that wasn't fair?

Of course, that was probably one of the things that Father had taken into account. He probably figured that Malcolm wouldn't run away if Trip couldn't come with him. The other genius part that Father probably wasn't aware of was that Trip wouldn't run away without Malcolm. _He is responsible, Father, far more responsible than you give him credit for._

Walking into the dining room, it was all he could do not to gasp. Trip was there, he was in uniform, but… it reminded Malcolm of the time Trip had 'borrowed' Jonathan's clothes back at camp. Already, he had the collar of his shirt turned half-in, half-out – no easy task with a button down collar – and it looked as though the sleeves were two different lengths. Oatmeal and milk stained the front of the shirt and his pants. Father's face was nearly purple.

"Mary!"

"Oh, dear. Fortunately, I do have spare trousers and shirt… fortunately his jacket is okay." Was it Malcolm's imagination, or did a flash of triumph cross Trip's features with Mother's pronouncement? No, he decided, it was real. Trip was definitely Up To Something.

Mother hustled Trip out of the room and Father followed, presumably to make sure Trip didn't trick Mother somewhere along the way. Curious, Malcolm risked a closer look at the abandoned jacket.

It wasn't obvious at first, but then he saw it. Red stitching decorated the cuffs, the thread fine enough that it nearly blended in against navy fabric. Surely… Malcolm looked even closer, squinting to see.

_Kill me now._ The words were practically microscopic, Malcolm's nose almost touching the fabric before he could make them out. Somehow Trip had re-stitched the cuffs with a decorative pattern, running the words all the way around. Malcolm straightened up, chewing on his lip so he wouldn't laugh. He could hear Father coming back and he didn't want to spoil Trip's fun. _That_ was Trip's game then. Instead of risking the scrutiny of close inspection, he'd thrown something obvious at Father and gotten him angry. And Trip was right, when Father was truly enraged like this he wasn't going to look as closely, not since they were now pressed for time.

"I am pleased to see that you have not chosen to emulate your friend's juvenile behaviour." Father didn't sound pleased at all. He sounded like… Father.

Malcolm suppressed a sigh. He'd never really seen Charlie happy either, but at least the man had more emotions than smug and angry. At least the Tuckers had an excuse for how messed up things were in the house – what was the Reeds' reason? It couldn't be any thing as simple as – as Trip would put it – Father being an asshole, could it?

_At least when I was there, I could do something right._ Maybe the Tuckers had low standards, but somehow Malcolm doubted it. It was more as though they had realistic standards.

_What would you do, Father, if your children hadn't been born almost perfect?_ Malcolm remembered Trip talking about speech-therapy when he was younger and James still had to attend special classes. Would he have learned to sympathise more? Somehow, Malcolm doubted it. Father had never failed at anything in his life, he had no idea what it was like to not be the best. He believed that willpower could overcome anything.

_And that's where Trip has you beat_, he suddenly realised. Trip could be just as stubborn as Father – more stubborn probably – and had enough willpower for five people, but he was also more _creative_. If Trip attempted something and failed, he didn't try it again, he tried something else. He didn't abandon the goal, he just abandoned the ways of achieving it that didn't work for him. _If we can't get over the wall, we'll go under, or around it._ It still got you to the same place.

But where was Trip trying to go now? He'd given into Father relatively easily, for Trip. Surely, it wasn't just because of Father's habit of punishing Malcolm for Trip's transgressions. Malcolm knew that only fuelled Trip's outrage towards Father. It had to be part of something bigger.

_That's the difference between us_. Malcolm was like Father – he made battleplans. Trip – as much as he said he never planned ahead – had great schemes full of intricate details and built-in fail-safes. Father had taught Malcolm to try to consider every scenario, Trip seemed to consider that to be impossible, so he didn't even try, just left room for manoeuvring when things went wrong.

Father, Malcolm realised, could act, but he didn't know how to _re_act. If things went wrong, it was a disaster.

"In Chinese, the character for 'crisis' is a combination of 'danger' and 'opportunity'." Trip seemed to read Malcolm's mind, murmuring in Malcolm's ear as he came back into the room.

_Gentlemen, we have a crisis_. Malcolm wished he could say it aloud. Trip actually laughed when Malcolm cracked jokes. And from the looks of things, he was coming out of the depression that had him paralyzed only weeks before. Getting food probably had something to do with that – Trip had gained nearly ten pounds, pushing him towards 'normal.' But he was _planning_ again, getting ready to pull something. It was a good sign, a _very _good sign.

Malcolm felt like jumping up and down, instead, he concentrated on keeping his face neutral. He didn't want Father to wonder what was going on – Malcolm couldn't ever remember laughing or really smiling before he met Trip, so happy would definitely make Father suspicious. _But I can't help it. I _am_ happy._ His best friend, his _only_ friend was going to be okay. _Yes!_


End file.
